Lazy Post

Stolen from a couple of brilliant bloggers who inspire me constantly, Zhoen & LJ

Accent: As boring and nondescript as a glass of milk, North American. No drawl. No twang. No misplaced R's (Despite growing up in Massachusetts with a parent who consistantly adds R's to words, such as: IdeaR.) And no, although I grew up in Massachusetts I do not pahk my cah in Havahd Yahd.

Booze: None at the moment, though I'm having an odd craving for cheap champagne.

Chore I hate: Seriously, only one? Wouldn't this be better phrased: Chore I Love? If forced to pick one, it would have to be cleaning the kitty litter. Thankfully pregnancy & a wonderful husband have spared me of this.

Dogs/Cats: I have a completely irrational fear of dogs, and I think cats fit my life better (re: I am too lazy to walk a dog every time it needs to relieve itself.)

Essential electronics: A computer, for writing & schoolwork primarily...and really, how else would I procrastinate without the internet?

Favourite perfume/cologne: None. Itchy nose just thinking about them. Although, I did recently buy a bottle of an essential oil that (supposedly) smells different on each woman who wears it, because it interacts with her chemistry. I don't entirely believe this - but it does smell pretty on me, and it doesn't make me itch. Most days though, it's just me and my Suave deoderant.

Gold/silver: White gold.

Hometown: Small mill town twenty miles west of Boston.

Insomnia: Either it happens, or I happen.

Job title: Student & Mama

Kids: See above.

Living arrangements: Limbo

Most admired trait: Loyalty, compassion, humor, humility (in others - and I hope that others find these in me.)

Number of sexual partners: One

Overnight hospital stays: Only for the birth of my son. Terrible sleeping arrangements, with my poor husband crook-necked on a chair beside me and nurses coming in to inspect my stitches (which were, understandably, not in the easiest place to prod) every couple of hours.

Phobia: Too many. Heights. Insects. Drowning. Flying. And so on and so forth...

Quote:What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window. ~Burton Rascoe

Religion: Christian

Siblings: Two of the most unique individuals I'll ever have the pleasure of knowing. My sister and I are 19 months apart, and despite years of taunting and teasing she's still willing to be my dearest friend. Aside from my husband, she knows me better than anyone else ever will. My younger brother can come across as the brooding artistic type but he has the cliched heart of gold and the sensitivity that can only come from being raised beneath two older sisters. And he's incredibly handsome.

Time I usually wake up: Varies, based on the Boss's whim.

Unusual talent: My lack of talent - I can't roll my tongue or whistle.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: None really, but I don't prefer eggplant.

Worst habit: Procrastinating. Whining to my husband about feeling bloated. Changing my outfit at least five times before leaving the house, no matter where I'm going. (Just to name a few.)

X-rays: Several.

Yummy foods I make: Low-fat chocolate chip cookies & Tira misu. I love to bake and to try to make traditionally unhealthy treats healthy (or at least less unhealthy...)

Zodiac Sign: Meow.

Musings from the Sandbox

The question occurred to me today while kneeling beside my son in a sandbox, smiling (effortlessly, even in the oppressive heat) at his determination as he filled his pail with shovelfuls of slippery sand. I love him, admire him and adore him with so much ferocious maternal love that my heart actually aches beneath weight of it all.

So, how can I possibly love another human being as much as I love this one?

Summer asked me this question when she was expecting her second daughter and I, childless and all knowing, responded with some sort of cliche "oh, you'll be surprised how much love your heart can hold" or something equally ignorant and ridiculous - never thinking that I'd ever find myself doubting my own words.

But now, I see she was right to wonder.

Soon - there will be two children with my heart attached to their sleeves running around playgrounds and schools and the world at large. There will be another small hand looking to fit in the fold of my fingers, another warm pulse wrapped in my arms and beating against my own. The very thought makes my heart quiver - scared of the ache, of the weight, of the potential for explosion - overwhelmed at the very prospect.

And then s/he bumps me gently from inside, nudging me back to reality, where I smile and press a palm to my stomach, realizing that it's too late. I'm already there.

Memorial Day

Sandboxes. Swingsets. Barbeques. Reunions. Camera's flashing all weekend long and ending here: a capture of life, not glamourous or pretty. Just as it is. My eyes are tired. The skin around them swollen and just starting to turn gray. My freckles are hiding, waiting to be coaxed to the fore by the summer's sun. His porcelain skin is pressed against mine, greenish-hazel eyes are tired and blank, staring to the distance.

The long weekend ending in my arms at the foot of the stairs, mother and son.

Bump

And so it begins...Taken this morning at 17 weeks 3 days along.

C, Part Duex

(The Boss bursts into tears, I look up to see C backing away from him and staring at her hands.)

C? Why is Bossman crying?

I didn't do anything.

Ok, why is he crying?

I didn't do anything.

C, are you lying to me?

*silence*

C, I would rather have you tell me what you did than have you lie to me. I'll try not to be upset when you tell me. But if you keep lying to me, I will be mad.

Ok...(She proceeds to tell me about her toy snatching crime, meanwhile The Boss is happily playing elsewhere.)

Thank you, for being honest with me, C. It's always best to tell the truth.

Yeah. (She nods enthusiastically in agreement.) Sometimes, though, I forget things.

Oh, that's ok. Everyone forgets things sometimes, C.

Yeah.

*Pause*

Like, sometimes, I forget that I have poop in my pants.

Babysitting: Conversations with C

(Somewhere in the wooded-heart of Massachusetts, there's a steady stream of children's music playing & the constant chatter of two toddlers attempting to communicate with each other and a very patient kitty. Meanwhile, four-year old C follows me around for more mature conversation.)

8:30 AM

Want to play catch?

It's a little early for catch, C.

Want to watch me dribble.

Sure.

Guess what I'm thinking.

You like to dribble?

Yes! How did you know?

I am super smart.

I know what you're thinking.

What am I thinking?

You're thinking that You like to dribble.

How did you guess?

I'm super smart too.

11:30 AM

What if you didn't have any juice for me to drink?

Then I'd give you milk.

What if you didn't have any milk?

Then I'd give you water.

What if you didn't have any juice or milk or water?

Then I'd take you down to the lake and have you drink out of the lake.

What if you didn't have any juice or milk or water or lake...


2:00 PM

I know how to spell my name.

That's great, how do you spell it?

C-H-1-O-E-T-U

Hmmm...are you sure?

Yes. I know it.

Ok.

3:45 PM

We're here today, and then tomorrow and then the next day and then the day after that and then one more day and then we're done.

No, C, you're only here for two more days.

Just two?

Just two.

I knew that.

*Pause*

Things are different here.

How so?

Well, you make me eat five bites of my soup.

Uh huh.

And we always flush the toilet.

Yes, we always flush the toilet here.

And you have stairs.

Free Advice

For married men (or men who hope to be married someday...) Come to think of it, this applies to married women too. Or really anyone in a significant relationship - no, wait, in any relationship.

Say Thank you. Often.

Once Upon a Kiwi

Nevermind, I don't feel like writing about it anymore.

I've gathered a lot to say here over the past week; bits on pregnancy, friendships, self-esteem, kids, school, husbands, dogs, poetry, playdates, writing, memories, floods, etc.

But, it's eleven o'clock and I'm still wearing the sweatpants I woke up in. It's eleven o'clock and I just giggled at the computer screen because I forgot to type the 'l' in o'clock. Probably not my most creative hour of the day.

Mother's Day

Pancake batter under my nails. Egg and batter splattered frying pan still hot on the stove. Wisks and bowls and spatula's soaking in the sink. The two men in my life full to the brim and happily lolling around amidst piles of blocks and trucks and balls.

What a nice way to spend a Mother's Day morning.

Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful women out there, biological mothers and not. To the women who have raised four or five or six children to adulthood.To the women who are full of life, turning and growing within. And to the women who haven't ever held a child of their own, but who have had a part in touching the lives of others. To the nurterers, to the healers and to the listeners who answer their phones at two in the morning. To the one's who have cleaned other people's messes and dried another's tears. To all of the women who give of themselves to others, effortlessly or not. Thank you.

And Happy Mother's Day.

Munro

Loving moments carefully reconstructed in words, as I do, I can't help but be seduced continually by the works of Alice Munro. Her words give flesh and breath and life to seemingly mundane moments scattered across the sub-arctic (Canadian) world.

I take her in small doses. A story before bed. Perhaps half of one during a naptime. Savoring. Knowing that though the writing will stop, the story will continue beating beyond the closing of the book.

It's a fascinating talent, she has.

But darnit if she doesn't make it immensely difficult to sit down and write something of your own. Nothing seems quite right after reading something so eloquently bleeding.

And this is where I am today. Deadlines approaching. Naptime dwindling to its final precious minutes. And my mind lost in another place and time with words that aren't my own.

Closure

It occurred to me as we wound through twilight-lit roads last evening. It came, not as a terrible thought, or even as a sad one - only as a simple hmm amongst a myriad of other thoughts to share with my husband on a rare toddler-less drive.

It was: I would've been holding our second baby right now, had we not experienced our first loss (my due date had been May 2nd)

The thought wound its way through me and out into the air between us. We paused for a moment of reflection before letting it dissolve between us, spoken and vanished in the course of a three minute conversation; neither of us any sadder or different than before it was uttered.

It wasn't simply a thought though, or a fact, or a reason to stop and ponder the what-if's of our lives.

It was closure.

The Morning After

I fell asleep last night with a pen in my hand, scribbling into a stenopad the thoughts of my last waking moments. Nothing coherant. Nothing eloquent. Nothing really worth transcribing here. But it felt good to be writing.

And waking up this morning, my world is different (comprised of the distance between myself and the arms that reach for me.)

Fevers have vanished. A beautiful Spring morning is waving at me in breezes of blues and greens beyond my window. And today we celebrate my husbands birth.

A good day all around.

Climbing Out of a Month-long Malaise...

Sort of.

They say that the second trimester is a burst of fresh air - a feeling of relief after three months of exhaustion and nausea that ravages you and leaves you feeling limp. I want to talk to whoever these people are, because they're wrong in my case.

Of course, it could also be because our house has been walloped by a virus that has us all drained of energy, achy and reaching for tissues.