Waves

Oliver started waving last week. It was quite beautiful. I was sitting about 8 feet away, and I looked at him and said, "Hi, Ollie!." He raised his arm and danced his little fingers around in response. It took my breath away. He connected with me. I said "hi "and he said "hi" back.

He's getting good at the wave, and now likes to connect with everything else in the world around him: his Great Grandma and his Aunties, Grandparents, strangers on the walking path, the cat, the cat, the cat, the closet, the cat, his toys, the TV, the cat. Auntie Karen visited for a most glorious weekend, and we took Ollie to the beach, where he waved at the waves. And Karen had played enough peek-a-boo on the landing of the staircase that every day that now, Oliver looks up at the stairs- with nobody on it-and waves.

Last night he had waves of puke. I heard a warbled cry over the baby monitor and couldn't quite identify in my REM fog why his cry sounded a little off. I found him sitting in barfed green beans, clamoring at the siderails of his crib, gargle-screaming. I have always dreaded the middle-of-the-night puke; we have only had one or two so far. But when I looked at my sad little boy, green vomit stuck in his hair, on his face, soaking his blankets and sheets, all I wanted to do was pick him up. Wait, I mean, take off his soiled pajamas, and pick him up. We executed a 4am bath, where Oliver sat soapy and shivering, with tired eyes pink all around, giving an occasional whimper. Then he looked up at the shower curtain, and waved.

We cuddled in clean towels, as I sang to him and massaged lotion into his tired limbs. I have been here before, several times, looking at my sick child, and wanting to give him everything good and sweet in the world. He puked again. And again. In a stroke of equal parts productivity and luck, I had just done the towel-laundry the night before, so we had plenty of terry-clothed ammo. I threw another load of laundry in before I tucked him into bed with me. His eyes drooped in sleepy delerium, but before Oliver drifted off, he took a good look at me lying next to him. He draped his arm over mine, and snuggled closer until his forehead was resting against mine. And there we lay, drifting together on the waves of sleep, connected.