When Cooper first goes outside, he is erratic.
He runs bewildered, whipping his head from side to side like every millisecond he is noticing something new, something now worthy of his attention. He cannot figure out what is important, what he should focus on, wriggling and contorting his body as he dodges and jerks across the lawn in unpredictable stops and starts. He cannot regulate his emotions, sometimes yelping in a strange way that seems only partly mammalian.
…
I see myself in Cooper these days.
[To be fair… I have always seen myself in sleepy, gentle, bumbling Cooper.]
Since we have moved, I have slipped into the ritual of disarray.
Each day I wake, and spend my days in a vortex of unpacking boxes, cleaning out dusty drawers, measuring all angles of a piece of furniture even though I know it will not fit in my tiny car, buying things, returning things, asking too many questions at the hardware store, pinning pictures of our dream kitchen, calling utility companies and banks and HR departments, researching contractors and landscapers and painters, making lists that never seem to get shorter, and searching for things, always searching for things I know we must have somewhere. In the morning, before the sweat sets in, I pause in the living room (the room berated by the sun, also the only room I have partial cell phone service in) and look for jobs.
Like Cooper, I am zigzagging through life. Every project is half finished. I bought the shelves, but forgot the brackets. I reupholstered the chairs, but need to drill holes for the screws. I picked out the perfect dehumidifier after hours of research, but now it is sold out.
I hope this does not sound plaintive. More reflective. I am living a life in motion.
P often tells me that he wishes to see me more excited about things. I have always been even-keeled. A shy baby turned mild-mannered child turned sensitive and sometimes brooding adult. I am more prone to quiet and contemplative melancholy than any sort of disruption. So this new flurry of projects and wishlists and to-dos is finally ruffling my feathers.
I love our new home.
And I am incited by the feeling, finally, that this is home. 9 months into marriage, it truly feels like we are building a life. In a way different from the more turbulent and feeble days of our early relationship, different from the consciously temporary days of our stint in Colorado. Now, I wonder if the office will suffice as a bedroom after three children. I read up all afternoon on spider deterrents so that our screened porch will be more inviting. I make a mental note to set aside time to pack P’s lunch in the evenings - a tiny kindness that I don’t want to lose sight of. I am wheeling around in the vortex because I am excited for the first time in a long time. Melancholy seems, at least for now, so far away.
…
Once he comes inside, Cooper settles down. He sails onto the couch and presses his chin into my lap. With searching eyes, he pleads for attention, demanding emphatically to be loved.
After dinner, when the table is cleared and dishes are left to dry, I sink into the couch. I pull my feet to the side and tuck them under my legs. I lean into P, and sigh deeply when he rubs my arm and scratches the back of my neck. We absentmindedly watch House Hunters, and I bathe in the warmth of feelings in this moment.
Like Cooper, I am bewildered. and I don’t really mind.
