Dailies 11/12

How many cups of tea have I made and just forgotten about? I'm surprised there aren't 30 mugs of ice-cold, very strong tea all over my house.


I am behind on life. Every afternoon I think tonight I'll be sure to do my PT. And then the evening rolls around and I've either forgotten all about or I'm so tired my vision is a little blurry and I'm on edge wondering if the baby is really down for the night. I haven't ordered Ivy's birth announcements yet. I keep not writing up a testimonial for my doula because I want to say something better and more meaningful than she's awesome and you should hire her. (We love you, Kerri!) I thought I planned the meals for this week; I did grocery shop a little on Saturday and a little more today, but there is still nothing in the house to eat.

The kitty made me cry today. I was trying to soothe Ivy and trying to get Westley to wait a minute and trying to remember where the hell I put my cup of tea. The meowing for food (two hours before kitty dinnertime) was the last straw.

Life is so loud and I want quiet. Every sound Westley makes, I think, "Could you just...not?" It doesn't help that about 90% of his play noises are the sounds of toys killing each other. Imaginary things blowing up. I know he's just pretending, working his way through a developmental-psychology-sanctioned warmonger stage, but I keep thinking about the real wars going on and it makes me sad.


Life is so loud, but it looks quiet in pictures. I only think to (or manage to) get out the camera when things are relatively calm and still: waiting for story time at the library, playing in the park on a chilly afternoon, enjoying the heated floors of my parents' basement. Will I remember the overwhelming feelings of spread too thin and not quite patient enough when I look back at images from Fall 2012?

Or will I get that same wistful look that the old women in the grocery stores and coffee shops get when they see this youngish mother with her energetic preschool boy and snuggly baby girl? My own grandmother repeated their mantra when she came for a visit on Friday afternoon: "Enjoy this time. It goes so fast."

Enjoy this time, I tell myself as I stand in the parking lot, leaning over the side of the car seat to nurse a squalling Ivy. It goes so fast.

Enjoy this time, as Westley jumps and makes blaster noises in the backyard at eight o'clock in the morning. It goes so fast. And he tracks in mud and wet leaves, bubbling over with excitement, eager to share his knowledge of fictional characters and their powers.

Enjoy this time, as I hold and kiss and rock the baby and my biceps ache and my mid-back burns and my long-forgotten tea cools.

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