May Day. Labour Day.
We celebrated May Day yesterday with plans to host six adults and seven small children in our 90 square meter apartment.
Hugo gently fussed through the pre-dawn hours, and I woke to discover an inadequate diaper and soiled sheets. The traffic circle in front of our building was blocked with thousands and thousands of demonstrators, bullhorns and base blaring. The road leading to our place was choked with busses carrying protestors, bringing traffic to a standstill for kilometres and kilometres.
In my kitchen, the tart shell shrank. I burned the veggies. I didn’t have enough eggs, or coffee cups, or chairs at our table.
The skies, which had been clear, began to cloud over and threaten rain. I thought to myself, the signs don’t look good. This might just turn into a disaster.
But it didn’t. We ate. We drank. (BREAKFAST WINE!! PS, It’s a thing!) We laughed and lounged. We cooed over babies and told stories of living. The kids played, and swam, and made messes, ate, and played some more. They found the iPad and shared it around. There was not one squabble amongst the seven of them.
Somehow the day came together, lazy and long, and perfectly lovely. I had cooked for a crew. I tidied the house. I organised a gathering, and accomplished it all with a little baby on my hip.
The first of May marks Labour Day. And Hugo’s three month birthday. I think it was fitting. A small celebration to close the door on the “fourth trimester,” the labour of the newborn days is behind us, and we welcome a new phase. Life with two kids. A new normal. Getting out and living again.
It was a good day, the best kind.