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After writing the post “On Mothers and their Sons”, I felt invigorated. I was proud of the piece. I thought it was clever and funny and exposed a deep truth. At least a deep truth within my own experience.

So, I was shocked (and admittedly a little depressed) when some friends and family expressed concern about the post. Concern that it was, perhaps, “odd,” “perverted,” “lustful”. That it made the reader “uncomfortable.” That the thoughts and feelings expressed in the essay were “maybe things that people might think or feel but certainly wouldn’t talk about.”

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So, I finally picked up Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions.

Really, I should clarify that statement. I didn’t just pick the book up. I’d done that many times before– sometimes pressing the cover to my forehead hoping to ingest some of its unknown wisdom.

No, this time I actually picked up the book and read it.

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Last night, for the first time, Silas came home smelling like cheap perfume.

It’s strange how babies seem to absorb the scent of anything and anyone they touch. As if they hold some magic ability to absorb the very essence of things. Then, they go about pretending that they’re just beginning to learn how keep their limbs from spontaneously flailing about when really they know all of your secrets and the secrets of everything they touch and the secrets of the Universe and wherever it was that they really came from.

Silas’s sacred wisdom aside, he smelled like he’d been out on the prowl last night. At five months?!? Already!

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I just want to say that I am happy and hopeful that Silas might grow up in a nation in which Barack Obama is President!

Viva Obama!

And, yet again, I set Silas down in his crib at bed time, wide eyed and full of smiles. He rolled onto his side, rubbed his blankie on his face and oh-so-silently slipped off into slumber.

But before drifting off into dreamland he whispered, ever so quietly: “Viva Barack! Viva Obama! Viva los Estados Unidos! Viva! Viva! Viva! Arriba!” With his little democratic fist waving freely in the air…

Note: Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood is a graphic novel/memoir by Marjane Satrapi about growing up in Iran during the Islamic Revolution. Persepolis is also an ancient Persian city that is now in ruins. Persepolis is also, also the name of a french film, currently in theaters, which is the cinematic adaptation of the graphic novel and its sequel.

So, we went to see it.

Persepolis.

And, it happened again.

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I just finished telling a friend about how great it is that we’ve decided to let Silas cry it out. It’s so damn liberating, I said. He still cries sometimes when we put him down, but nothing like the first night. And, he’s so much happier, I said. He never cries when he’s awake anymore. I have so much more time. My husband and I are starting to spend time together again. We’re planning a trip to a cabin in the mountains. I’m writing. It may be the best thing we’ve ever done as parents. It’s so damn liberating!

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I keep a journal of letters to my son that I began while I was pregnant. Admittedly, I didn’t write much from weeks 4 until the present because he is just now getting over that crying-all-the-time hump. But, here is an excerpt from today’s letter.

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