I'm still kind of distracted by continuity and identity and the illogics of my heart. I think nobody TOLD me I'd never be April again. Maybe they did and I forged on anyway?
This week I'm alone in the office at work sipping mint and playing Lucius on repeat.
This week I'm victorious and paying attention to detail and punishing myself at every turn.
Honestly, I'm fine--was fine--will continue to be fine--. What I lack currently is a. unclaimed time, and b. willpower. There's always a chance willpower will spontaneously burst from the soles of my feet sometime in 2017.
I'm very lucky. I suspect I'll get to the next decade of my life with only a few more callouses and bruises from lashes of Weltschmerz. There are things I'm good at, like catching a wiggly, dripping toddler fresh from the bath when he leaps into my arms.
12.20.2016
11.15.2016
faster
This week has been a high speed zigzag, and a time of clinging. I am so very, very lucky to be who/where/what I am, because my biggest immediate pains have been my loss of desire to stream NPR all day at work and to read dystopian novels in the evenings. I feel this keenly.
I really like being a niece, but this week I was seized as a mascot between aunts and uncles, a target on one side for vocal affirmation and on the other for denouncement. It's never happened before, and it feels weird to block family-in-law from being able to send me facebook messages, but here we are. 2016 has never happened before, either.
2016 is liminal at work, too. There are many ways this is true. Sometimes I am shocked that I am still here, but there is an appeal to being the pillar (for me). There is an appeal to being a pillar slowly shifting, but not too much at once. In this week of mourning and fear I have been grateful for the minutia like web conferences and staff meetings and prepping for end-of-semester maintenance.
Oh and I'm a mom to a toddler who is tall and clever and draining, who doesn't talk but squawks, who lights up the room with his joy and silliness. He's predictable and glorious and I get really worn down by him sometimes. There is still that wedge of my soul that thinks from time to time, was this a good idea?? But then, his existence could never been called into question. He is, he was going to be. We're going to laugh and cry our way through his childhood.
I really like being a niece, but this week I was seized as a mascot between aunts and uncles, a target on one side for vocal affirmation and on the other for denouncement. It's never happened before, and it feels weird to block family-in-law from being able to send me facebook messages, but here we are. 2016 has never happened before, either.
2016 is liminal at work, too. There are many ways this is true. Sometimes I am shocked that I am still here, but there is an appeal to being the pillar (for me). There is an appeal to being a pillar slowly shifting, but not too much at once. In this week of mourning and fear I have been grateful for the minutia like web conferences and staff meetings and prepping for end-of-semester maintenance.
Oh and I'm a mom to a toddler who is tall and clever and draining, who doesn't talk but squawks, who lights up the room with his joy and silliness. He's predictable and glorious and I get really worn down by him sometimes. There is still that wedge of my soul that thinks from time to time, was this a good idea?? But then, his existence could never been called into question. He is, he was going to be. We're going to laugh and cry our way through his childhood.
3.16.2016
me too, but silently
Sometimes even when I'm thinking ME TOO ME TOO ME TOO I don't want to open my mouth to say so.
I knew not sleeping well was part of the bargain. It's still jarring, sometimes. Mornings at work are hard. Work is not hard, but being here is.
I would like a time machine, please.
I would like a donut, please.
I knew not sleeping well was part of the bargain. It's still jarring, sometimes. Mornings at work are hard. Work is not hard, but being here is.
I would like a time machine, please.
I would like a donut, please.
2.05.2016
self care
lying flat on my stomach on the living room floor listening to Bach
140 minutes of brisk walking
casserole an hour late
amazon prime
dark chocolate, hot tea, animated movie, asleep halfway through
extra coconut oil
not folding laundry
honesty
audiobooks
sleeping pressed against S with as many body parts as I can manage
bringing the baby into bed with us in the wee hours
bluetooth headphones
conscious un-jealousy
conscious un-googling
shoulders back, chin up, straight forward
140 minutes of brisk walking
casserole an hour late
amazon prime
dark chocolate, hot tea, animated movie, asleep halfway through
extra coconut oil
not folding laundry
honesty
audiobooks
sleeping pressed against S with as many body parts as I can manage
bringing the baby into bed with us in the wee hours
bluetooth headphones
conscious un-jealousy
conscious un-googling
shoulders back, chin up, straight forward
2.02.2016
all ear
Sometimes when I'm in bed at night I think my ear is growing to take over the whole side of my head. 95% asleep, with the up ear completely alert. I keep waking before the squawking starts. My ear lies awake too long after the squawking stops. Full of phantoms.
1.26.2016
snow days
I have a clanging head and a sense of displacement, because I’m at work after a snowed in four day weekend, most of that time without S, who was snowed in himself, away from us, at work.
I’m really tired.
And still in the stage where I actively resent the lack of sleep, self-government, and out of the box spontaneity that life with a baby has brought. Oh man, a blizzard without a baby would have been so different. Wading through the snow banks, diving down deep. Sleeping in late, watching movies, reading books, putting together a 1000 piece puzzle. I’d probably have baked bread, which I do about once a year, on a snowy day. There may have been too much wine and hiking over to a good friend’s apartment up the hill to share it, and the bread.
With a baby, especially with THIS baby, at THIS time, I was sleep-deprived and deep in poop-covered laundry instead of snow drifts, down on my knees on the kitchen floor picking up chunks of sweet potatoes, stuck inside.
It’s still ok though, actually. It was very ok.
I watched the clock and thought to myself: 42 more hours of solo parenting, 33 more hours of solo parenting, 17 more hours of solo parenting, 5 more hours of solo parenting. But by the end, when S finally made it back home, I was still ok to keep on loving, being a primary lover, being the reader of signs and soother of tempers. I hop out of bed right away.
We sat by the window and watched the snow plows. He’s wonderful, you know. He has wispy hairs that stick out over both of his ears. He’s so curious, so wiggly and wily and sweet. He’s got such a great gummy grin and he can do things like pick up and feed himself peas. He naps the best when I hold him. It was so good to have the time available to hold him. Rock in the glider for an hour, and then two, while he snuffled and sucked his thumb in sleep. I hold him until my arm falls asleep and then keep holding him because that’s how I get to watch him in stillness. I try to count his eyelashes. He’s mesmerizing. He’s so kinetic while he’s awake. He can’t quite crawl but tries really hard. He rocks and he rolls and he lunges and grabs and dances and can pull up from his belly to his knees to a sitting position on his own. He splashes in the tub, he kicks his legs on the changing table. He cackles and yells and demands and giggles and coos and pulls hair and comes at my face with his mouth wide open, conking into my nose or my cheek or my forehead with what I’ll call a kiss, though it’s borderline abuse. He wakes up noisy and hungry with every muscle in his tiny body taut. He’s insatiable. He’s beautiful. I really just can’t even quite believe he exists.
The pull in both directions is about equally strong—I want to always be with him. I want to still be my own person. It might sound like this is balanced, but it’s not. It’s impossible. I’m doing it anyway.
He is a hard thing. He is the hardest thing. He’s impossible. We're existing anyway. We're really lucky.
I’m really tired.
And still in the stage where I actively resent the lack of sleep, self-government, and out of the box spontaneity that life with a baby has brought. Oh man, a blizzard without a baby would have been so different. Wading through the snow banks, diving down deep. Sleeping in late, watching movies, reading books, putting together a 1000 piece puzzle. I’d probably have baked bread, which I do about once a year, on a snowy day. There may have been too much wine and hiking over to a good friend’s apartment up the hill to share it, and the bread.
With a baby, especially with THIS baby, at THIS time, I was sleep-deprived and deep in poop-covered laundry instead of snow drifts, down on my knees on the kitchen floor picking up chunks of sweet potatoes, stuck inside.
It’s still ok though, actually. It was very ok.
I watched the clock and thought to myself: 42 more hours of solo parenting, 33 more hours of solo parenting, 17 more hours of solo parenting, 5 more hours of solo parenting. But by the end, when S finally made it back home, I was still ok to keep on loving, being a primary lover, being the reader of signs and soother of tempers. I hop out of bed right away.
We sat by the window and watched the snow plows. He’s wonderful, you know. He has wispy hairs that stick out over both of his ears. He’s so curious, so wiggly and wily and sweet. He’s got such a great gummy grin and he can do things like pick up and feed himself peas. He naps the best when I hold him. It was so good to have the time available to hold him. Rock in the glider for an hour, and then two, while he snuffled and sucked his thumb in sleep. I hold him until my arm falls asleep and then keep holding him because that’s how I get to watch him in stillness. I try to count his eyelashes. He’s mesmerizing. He’s so kinetic while he’s awake. He can’t quite crawl but tries really hard. He rocks and he rolls and he lunges and grabs and dances and can pull up from his belly to his knees to a sitting position on his own. He splashes in the tub, he kicks his legs on the changing table. He cackles and yells and demands and giggles and coos and pulls hair and comes at my face with his mouth wide open, conking into my nose or my cheek or my forehead with what I’ll call a kiss, though it’s borderline abuse. He wakes up noisy and hungry with every muscle in his tiny body taut. He’s insatiable. He’s beautiful. I really just can’t even quite believe he exists.
The pull in both directions is about equally strong—I want to always be with him. I want to still be my own person. It might sound like this is balanced, but it’s not. It’s impossible. I’m doing it anyway.
He is a hard thing. He is the hardest thing. He’s impossible. We're existing anyway. We're really lucky.
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