Walking around today doing fine, perfectly fine, though rushing, hiding from I’m-not-sure-what inside.

(Wake in our screen porch where we’ve dragged out a mattress, feed the dogs, walk them, shower, prepare Rosie’s paperwork for camp, call her doctor for physical info, fill out silly forms for AT&T, gather the list for Jack’s birthday wants, plan a breakfast for Friday, check the sites I check daily online, clean the dog pee off the living room rug, do a load of laundry, fill the car’s tank, drive to the Community Farm to pick up our week’s share of vegetables, drive to the paint store to get paint chips that resemble what I think should be a light lemongrass, have lunch, vacuum, rearrange the furniture in the bedroom, more vacuuming of the cat-sized fur ball from under the bed that I could only reach when I moved the furniture, do another load of laundry, meet Jennifer, talk, write together, plan the details of a website we’re working on, walk home, walk in the garden, talk to Steve, read, accidentally fall asleep, wake, eat the dinner Steve’s prepared, bring vegetables to the neighbors.)

But something is off today. As if there are 25 letters, one is missing, and I can’t form any of the words I want to say. Or 31 teeth, leaving a gap where the tongue obsesses.

(It was a difficult Rosie day, and I think that is why. Trust. Trust. Trust that she will burst through these teenage years.)

When a day has felt off in the past, it’s nothing a glass of Chateau Saint Michele Chardonnay can’t fix. I am not one to go running when a day is hard, or fighting, or even hiding in a movie. I turn inward, walk, write, problem-solve in circles in my head, feel twisted inside, then nurse that glass (or two) of wine. Not necessarily the best habit, though not awful. But these days I can’t use that solution, that pretty-pretty glass, tall and thin with the translucent drink inside.

It is a gift now to be forced to find another mode of contentment. Steve drew a bath for me. He pressed on all the spots in my shoulders and spine that pushed back. He lit candles, four on each side of the tub, then went out into the garden to use the last half-hour of light while I breathed, warm, inspired in the bath.

That sign of energy: inspiration. The desire suddenly to write, photograph, draw. I’ve been without that for the first trimester, and without that while I volunteered my legs as hormonal pincushions to get here. Coming into the second trimester, I feel pieces of who I am unfogging, hopefully even for the better.

July 8th, 2009 | Category: happening, the baby thing | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL