septembery

The first of September, and there’s wet chill in the air that came on the rain. It feels like the end of summer, although I don’t smell the indefinable scent that means autumn yet. September means a new year in a way, a leftover feeling from my years, and years, and years of school. New beginnings on the dying of another summer’s greenness. It’s still exciting, although finally this second fall after graduation I don’t feel the pressing need to be somewhere and preparing for something.

Autumn is such an intense time- the change in mood and light and leaves is palpable and it brings out my witchiness like crazy. I’m so aware of the raw magical energy surrounding everything and I get the urge to do rituals and spells and to be outdoors just breathing. It’s a beautiful time, but I always have a hint of dread beneath my anticipation. Winter is a terrible struggle for me. I can measure my moods precisely against the length of days, and by February I’m usually deep in a depressed, fatigued funk. Christmastime fills me with a ridiculous level of anxiety and irritability, and after that it gets worse until late March or April.

Last year was a relief, though. I was insanely happy pregnant woman and although my tiredness was there, I was giddy. My spring this year was actually less fun, because by then my legs and feet were swollen out of all recognition and my belly was a large, lead planet. I’m telling myself, and pretty much believing it, that my first winter as a mama is going to be wonderful. I am focused on the milestones Molly’ll be reaching along the way- sitting up by Halloween? It could happen- definitely by Christmas, and then we’ll be ready to feed her some solid food. She’ll be bundled up in comfy, soft clothes when we go out, she’ll see snow for the first time, and she’ll be babbling, smiling, and laughing more. Will her beautiful hair start growing back? Will it still be dark like mine or blonde like Shane’s?

I know it’s a selfish reason to ernjoy having a baby, but I suspected that my daughter would prove to be a distraction from my overactive anxious mind, and it’s working in a way. My relentless over-analysis of my brain is getting better, because who has time for that indulgence? At the same time, though, I never knew the meaning of the word worry until now. On the whole, I think I’m as happy a mom as one can be. It feels like me, like a calling. And I’m pretty sure the baby high can float me through another winter.