Back to posting after a long hiatus. Here’s a sketch of a Sunday treat from last year.
This is from an old sketchbook, of a few years ago when the little tornado was learning to talk. Like all new parents we were caught unawares about the new organism’s ability to absorb and regurgitate at opportune moments.
A brief childhood interlude.
A serendipitous poem, drawing in a new sketchbook, Orin in a bucket. Sigh.
How fast they grow!
If only going to school was such a breeze…
But, really, over the years we have gone through this –
and now this –
Does it ever get any easier?
In the early days of being a mother I hardly had time or energy to draw. I went back to working full time when Orin was four months, and we had a nanny in the day time to look after him. Both the brown boy and I were lucky to have the choice to work flexible hours which is so important when you’re a new parent.
I started drawing again when Orin was about seven or eight months old and my drawing had of course suffered. Not only was my skill rusty but also lack of sleep had nearly killed my imagination – but I kept on drawing. The journals from those years were quite terrible, but I still needed to draw, to make sense of life unfolding. Here are a few scattered drawings from those years.
From the journal Brain cut wild, 2016
One day when I was still pregnant, Indira and I were talking about the baby.
“I guess I’ll get bored with it in three months,” I said. “It’ll probably be like an app or a gadget.”
But around six months we were still enamored! And to my consternation, I learnt that babies keep changing all the time, so there is really no scope to get bored!
I went back to work when Orin was four months. Still breastfeeding, still feeding at night, and going to work during the day. So many working mothers go through the same thing, but it’s so exhausting! Every day of Orin’s first year I used to give myself a private award for staying human.
Though the brown boy was an completely engaged parent, and we had a day time nanny for Orin, there were times when I needed a little break.
“Hmmph,” says the anteater. “An afternoon of babysitting needs an afternoon of therapy.”
“There goes my potential babysitter,” I think.