Hubris

hu·bris [hyoo-bris, hoo-]
n.
excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance.

I asked people at work today to think of great acts of hubris. Some mentioned Ulysses and other Greek mythological characters, my friend Dave had some very specific football reference that involves 1993 (I think), the Superbowl and someone who thought he'd made a touchdown celebrating a little too soon, and of course there is George Bush, the WMDs and all the subsequent nonsense that has us at war in Iraq. Know what no one mentioned (and now it seems a little petty since I've brought up the WAR and all)? The great hubris of telling the internet your baby sleeps through the night when it was clearly ALL A FLUKE.

And how is hubris punished? Usually by great acts of retribution. Clementine slept perhaps two hours last night, and no matter how hard we tried she would not be comforted. She didn't want to be held, she didn't want to be snuggled or rocked or walked or left to cry or anything. She would occasionally sleep if Nate were sitting ramrod straight up on the couch, but that was it. Today we looked like zombie parents and could hardly get out the door. I never did find my wallet and take it with me, and I certainly didn't manage to get shoes on Clementine. It is never a good thing when I leave her at day care, and I have never for a moment believed that being at Julie's is better or as good as being at home. Today was a close call, though--I don't know if I would have stayed awake long enough to care for her today, or if I might have totally lost my shit if she didn't take a nap.

She is fast asleep tonight, though, and I'm not taking my chances and making any predictions. I just had a peek, and she looked so perfect all curled up in that big old bed, her face totally relaxed and the tiniest bit of spit gleaming at the corner of her mouth. It looked like bliss. While I have become very good at embracing the comical, stressed-out, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-life side of working motherhood, I started thinking tonight that I might be forgetting the slack-jawed awe with which I started this whole thing. Our first weeks home I was a tender, emotional, hormal mess more in love than I had ever been able to understand, more vulnerable to the world and its whims, more open to the possibilities. I was a gushing, sappy, adoring jumble of words and feelings, and I hate to think for a moment that I've let the difficulties, the hustle, the voices of reason, the predictable parent blinders or anything else dampen for a single moment the total wonder I feel when I'm in her presence. I need to remember to put the jokes aside from time to time and reconnect with that feeling. Sure, when I'm still putting on my shoes while tossing Cheerios into the backseat and answering work calls as if I'm already at my desk I have to laugh if for no other reason than to keep from screaming my bloody head off. But there are also the moments when I look back at her reflection in the rearview mirror and feel such a wave of familiarity and comfort. There's nothing funny about that moment.