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.
All posts tagged growing up
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.
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.