It is so much easier to write about the frustration than the joy.
I have expressed dissatisfaction with staying home all day (my life for almost two years). It's true that it's hard to have little time for myself. Between teaching online in the mornings and all the cooking and cleaning and playing with a toddler, writing is difficult to squeeze in. And it's true that even introverts need to get out sometimes, to see humans, to do things, and this has been impossible without a car.
But it's also true that Sophie is the light and love of my life, which I tell her about twenty times a day. How can I ever accurately describe how beautiful she is, how mischievous and funny? I write the dissatisfaction only because I am not talented enough to write well the joy: it spills beyond the lines, coloring outside the gray of ordinary days. We are lucky, lucky, lucky.
"I don't even want to put her to sleep," I have been telling Georg almost every night, clinging to Sophie before I put her in her crib. And when she wakes up every morning, I beam from ear to ear, "Good morning!" I croon with excess excitement. "I missed you so much, my sweet love," I tell her, lifting her from the crib and kissing her cheeks. Every day she is funnier, more complex, more affectionate. And every day I love her more.
Life passes swiftly, in stages. To recognize a stage is the first step towards wisdom. Recognizing temporality gives place for cherishing the timelessness at its core: that joy is now and forever coming through the blinds, seeking space to shelter, to give us new life. That this life is a good one: there is a freedom to being a stay-at-home mom to focus only on what matters. There are no deadlines, no office politics, no frustrating supervisors. Everything is love, which is another way of saying: everything is reality. I forget how rare this is, how different the world is outside the four walls of home. I am lucky, lucky, lucky. To remember this is to embrace it, to let the joy sink through my skin.