There is a certainty to keeping something secret. Once you share it, it can take on a life of it’s own. Better to keep it sealed up, cello-wrapped in opaque plastic—preferably in black, you know, if it’s handy—sterilized and safe.
Um, right?
All posts in nap time navel gazing
Family, food and phrase
It’s embarrassing how much time has passed since my last post. Over a year and a half. My daughter’s first birthday set off a chain reaction, not the least of which was the dropping of her morning nap…and subsequently, my writing time.
Then came my own birthday, and the mind-fucking that was wrapped up in those shiny, innocent looking boxes. Thirty I had survived fine, though I might need to thank post-partum hormones. The spiral that began with my 31st surprised me.
Then and now
For most of the day, I’ve been reviewing the events of this day exactly one year ago. And it was going fine…early labor, shooting that tv commercial with my brother (and labor slowing down); all that anticipation, knowing that some time very soon I would officially be a mother (very soon? Sure. 27 hours or so…).
This is to say nothing, really
Nothing of consequence to report.
Wait. Did I really just write that? Let me clarify…there is no consequential action taking place right now.
Unless hang-wringing counts as action.
There is no last load
She slept through last night. Through. The. Mother. Fucking. Night. Yep. I said it. She was asleep at 7; not a peep until 6. Oh, glorious sleep.
But there is a toll for such miracles.
No escape
My husband has just gone up to bed. At 7:00. Voluntary exile. The usual.
My talking is annoying more than just myself these days. Probably because of this habit of diving too deep into new topics (this week…an earthship), and giving an unnecessary, detailed running commentary of my findings. And my thoughts on my findings, my questions about my thoughts on my findings. My worries about my motivations for even seeking said findings. The usual.
This kiddie pool has a deep end
The girl has an ear infection. Fever. Screaming. Puking. Sleeping? Not so much. Well, these past nights have been better, but early on it was rough going. And I was sick, too. It’s really cruel, the way things sometimes shake out.
One day in the thick of full-flu-fuckitude, she eventually settled for her nap…after an hour of coaxing, Motrin-ing, puking and whining. Hurting everywhere, I dragged my un-tooth-brushed, sorry ass to the computer to waste some time on the mommy website I am a member of. Bad idea.
Piles
Of laundry. Of dishes. Of diapers.
In those diapers…piles of poo.
Piles of dust. Of crumbs. Of toys.
Sometimes even piles of puke, when the dog is involved. Puddles when it’s the baby.
There are the piles of bills, of mail, of receipts and lists and junk.
Then come the piles of worries and fears, musts and don’t forget’s.
My life has been reduced to piles, real and metaphorical. My only wish is that, while emptying the dishwasher or sweeping out the kitchen, I stumble upon piles not mentioned here. Like, say, cash. Or sanity. I’d even settle for silly old handwritten letters. They’d be anonymous, maybe, but say all the encouraging things I need to sort through all my other piles with love and optimism. Or maybe just…
Keep it up. You’re doing fine.
Something stirring
Betty Crocker I am not.
It occurs to me, my 30th birthday was months ago, but somehow inventing my own casserole recipe—and it actually being palatable—seems to slam shut the hollow core door to my twenties. The banana walnut pancakes I whipped up this morning? Insurance that the door was locked, nailed shut, a big ol’ dresser pushed up to it.
Demotion
Loki has narrowly escaped exile.
After the puke on the carpet, the decision seemed so right and so timely. The girl was sleeping, and I finally had a moment to sit and…wait. What’s that orange spot on the carpet? Sigh. It had been sitting a while, and certain to stain. There’s enough shit, puke and other sticky piles around the house now that there is a baby in charge. The dog has lost permission to contribute.