My parent’s home in the suburbs of Detroit has a narcotic effect on me. I think it’s the familiarity and the quiet. Their house sits on 3/4 of an acre surrounded by trees and flowers (daffodils!) and bushes. Deer and bunnies run through the yard. Hummingbirds and blue-jays and robins peck at their feeder. Occasionally, a train rumbles by.
A. and I arrived Friday night. We flew in for a baby shower my mom threw with the help of my sister-in-law, aunts and family friend. And aside from the lovely three-hour shower — where we saw friends and relatives (some of whom I haven’t seen in more than a decade), ate chicken salad, fruit and cupcakes and got child-rearing advice — we generally relaxed in the quiet.
A. read three of my dad’s books — one on baseball, one on math (infinity) and one on history. I read Ina May Gaskin’s book on birthing (I’m still trying to wrap my head around a baby coming out of me.)
On Sunday afternoon, we both fell asleep reading — me on one couch, A. on the other. I think we needed to be forced to relax with all of the madness of moving, settling in our new space and thinking about baby stuff. It was divine.