Sitting at the computer, I look around my living room. The electric fireplace is going even though it's 65 degrees outside. There is no heat, just a fake blue and orange flame that somehow makes me feel cozy. The baby is on the floor, trying with all his might to grab that illusive toy dangling over his head. Grady is keeping himself busy with the second shelf of the bookshelf. It is just his height, perfect for taking all the 'Harry Potter' books off. He lines them up on the floor, and walks across them like a bridge. He runs over to me as if he is going to burst with anticipation.
'buhgret teme sew sew mama?' His eyebrows are furled, head cocked to one side, and his shoulders are up to his chin. It must be a very important question to require such body language and gibberish.
'Yeah Grady, of course.' I say, assuming he is not asking to run with scissors. He returns to his Potter bridge and says to himself,
'two, four, fiye, sits, seyin, eight, mama, twelve.' His ascew counting coorilates with his wobbly steps to the next book in line.
'Grady, are you counting?'
'Yesh'
I decide to try and help him get past that difficult 'mama', which I can never figure out if it is ten or eleven. I guess if I were to be a number, it would be nice to be a ten. I prompt, 'One...'
Before I can finish he yells, 'Two' at the top of his lungs.
'Three..'
'Four'
'Five...'
'Sits'
At this point his hips sway with every number. A sort of counting dance that he does when he's really in the groove. 'Seven..'
'Eight'
'Nine..'
'Mama'
A smile creeps across my face. So I am a ten. I continue to see just how far this groove will take him, 'Eleven.."
'Twelve'
'Thirteen...'
He cocks his head to the side with a defying look on his face, 'Twelve'
I guess he is done with this counting business. I end our little lesson with a 'YAY, great job Grady!' Per usual, but by this time he is already distracted by Harry.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Week 3 Prompts
9. Writers have to listen to themselves; writers ought to always be talking to themselves. Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.
"This is quite the dilemma."
"No, actually, it is not. It is simple. Do it and get it over with, lazy."
"I'm not lazy, just reserving energy. Let's go about this logically. Pros and cons."
"Okay, pros. You will feel an incredible amount of relief. You will be able to sleep, at least for a few hours of the night. You mind and body will be comforted knowing that you have done it and will not have to do it again for a while."
"Alright. Valid points, but not good enough. Cons. My immediate comfort and security will be forever torn from me. I do believe that is the only argument I need. Although, there is also the fact that I could be interrupting my child's well being."
"I'm not even sure why I am trying to persuade you. It's going to happen eventually. Maybe when you are least expecting it. How do you plan on explaining that one to your husband?"
"Okay, you win. Did you have to bring out the big guns?"
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now, get up and go pee. Then you can go back to sleep."
10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--, she said--)
I sit at the restaurant with my husband and children. I am surrounded by tables that look like they are on their lunch break, or are having meetings. Especially this one table nearby. Their two rough voices are using words like 'agenda, schedule and inventory'. It wasn't until I listened closer that I realized that they were not talking business, at least not in the traditional sense.
The deeper of the two voices, "Well we definitely need some sort of penis shape."
"Yes, of course. But how can we achieve that? A mold? Or just cut it out?"
He quickly replies, "We can hire someone to do that for us. What about other novelty items? Penis necklaces, ice cubes?"
"Oh, speaking of penis ice cubes. A friend of mine has a mold for a penis ice sculpture."
"This is going to be a good night." He says excitedly
12. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.
I look around the restaurant. It is bustling. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. I wish restaurants were as busy when I was a waitress, but that's neither here nor there. Our waitress is short, wearing all black, which only makes her look shorter. Her hair is pulled back in a fury of curls and her face is as red as our menu. Her expression makes me want to tell her she can take a cigarette break, it wouldn't bother me to wait a few minutes. But she is good. Frazzled, yet on top of her game. The plates are like an extension of her hands as she weaves between chairs and tables. Gravity makes me believe one will fall, but it never does, it's like an optical illusion.
The tables she so eliquently manuevers around are filled with people in business attire. Each one with a more serious face than the last. I can just tell they are talking about their work day. If it were me, I would be enjoying my break rather than squandering it with talk of work.
"This is quite the dilemma."
"No, actually, it is not. It is simple. Do it and get it over with, lazy."
"I'm not lazy, just reserving energy. Let's go about this logically. Pros and cons."
"Okay, pros. You will feel an incredible amount of relief. You will be able to sleep, at least for a few hours of the night. You mind and body will be comforted knowing that you have done it and will not have to do it again for a while."
"Alright. Valid points, but not good enough. Cons. My immediate comfort and security will be forever torn from me. I do believe that is the only argument I need. Although, there is also the fact that I could be interrupting my child's well being."
"I'm not even sure why I am trying to persuade you. It's going to happen eventually. Maybe when you are least expecting it. How do you plan on explaining that one to your husband?"
"Okay, you win. Did you have to bring out the big guns?"
"I'm glad you see it my way. Now, get up and go pee. Then you can go back to sleep."
10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--, she said--)
I sit at the restaurant with my husband and children. I am surrounded by tables that look like they are on their lunch break, or are having meetings. Especially this one table nearby. Their two rough voices are using words like 'agenda, schedule and inventory'. It wasn't until I listened closer that I realized that they were not talking business, at least not in the traditional sense.
The deeper of the two voices, "Well we definitely need some sort of penis shape."
"Yes, of course. But how can we achieve that? A mold? Or just cut it out?"
He quickly replies, "We can hire someone to do that for us. What about other novelty items? Penis necklaces, ice cubes?"
"Oh, speaking of penis ice cubes. A friend of mine has a mold for a penis ice sculpture."
"This is going to be a good night." He says excitedly
12. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.
I look around the restaurant. It is bustling. Unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. I wish restaurants were as busy when I was a waitress, but that's neither here nor there. Our waitress is short, wearing all black, which only makes her look shorter. Her hair is pulled back in a fury of curls and her face is as red as our menu. Her expression makes me want to tell her she can take a cigarette break, it wouldn't bother me to wait a few minutes. But she is good. Frazzled, yet on top of her game. The plates are like an extension of her hands as she weaves between chairs and tables. Gravity makes me believe one will fall, but it never does, it's like an optical illusion.
The tables she so eliquently manuevers around are filled with people in business attire. Each one with a more serious face than the last. I can just tell they are talking about their work day. If it were me, I would be enjoying my break rather than squandering it with talk of work.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Week 2 Prompts
6. The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.
Not too long ago I was cleaning out the back of my closet. This is the place my inner hoarder comes out. All of the things that I should have thrown away, but held on to live there. Anyway, I was 'cleaning' it out (taking items out, contemplating for a few seconds, then replacing them in a more organized fashion) when I came across a box with a tag saying 'Ex-Files' on it. I don't remember where I go the title, I think I saw it on a movie once or something and thought it was clever. It contains memories from old boyfriends, notes and dried flower pedals and such. Next to it was a box filled with things from my relationship with my husband (I couldn't think of a clever title for this one I guess).
I opened them to compare and was surprised to find the contents very similar. I imagined the new box would contain grown-up things. I don't really know what grown up things are, but the concept seemed fitting. It too was also filled with little notes, flower pedals, photos of our dating days, a bottle cap that says 'your kind of a big deal' on the inside, he gave it to me on our first date. It all seemed rather juvenile, and I thought, does this define our relationship? Are the similarities between these two boxes also true when comparing relationships?
Then I started reading some of the notes. Again, very similar. The difference being, when I read notes from my husband, my heart started to flutter. I found myself holding my breath until the very last word. That's when I realized, the mementos from each are similar in form, but the meaning, the feelings I get from them, is exponentially more significant when they came from the man I love.
7. Looking in that photo album, I see--
My son, Grady. I'm witnessing all of his milestones through images. When he first rolled over, his first steps, the big first birthday, etc. Then, the cycle starts again, with my youngest son, Jack. If a someone were to view these pictures in black and white, they may think they are the same child. The only difference being that Jack has red hair. It baffles me that the one person in three generations to have red hair is him. It's so weird because it completely fits him. I think he would be a completely different person with brown hair. Or at least, I would perceive him differently. It's strange how our attributes help to define us as people. Who would I be with red hair?
8. It was the first, but not the best--or was it?
My first apartment with my husband was basically a hallway. I bet if I checked into it, it would be illegal for a person to live in that minuscule amount of living space. We squished as much furniture as possible in the oddly chopped up rooms. And there we were. Just us and an 80 lb dog named Rikkah. We had absolutely no way to escape each other. We could be sitting at either end of the apartment and still hear each other breathing. But we didn't have to escape each other. So fantastically smitten, we could spend infinite amounts of time together.
Ever since that apartments, our living spaces have been larger with each move and eventually we purchased our own home. This milestone gave us freedom from landlords. Which I thought would be a relief, but quickly realized the opposite. We have nobody to call to fix the sink, or worse, when we have septic troubles. Being your own landlord is a lot of responsibility. It makes me miss our tiny, hallway apartment.
Not too long ago I was cleaning out the back of my closet. This is the place my inner hoarder comes out. All of the things that I should have thrown away, but held on to live there. Anyway, I was 'cleaning' it out (taking items out, contemplating for a few seconds, then replacing them in a more organized fashion) when I came across a box with a tag saying 'Ex-Files' on it. I don't remember where I go the title, I think I saw it on a movie once or something and thought it was clever. It contains memories from old boyfriends, notes and dried flower pedals and such. Next to it was a box filled with things from my relationship with my husband (I couldn't think of a clever title for this one I guess).
I opened them to compare and was surprised to find the contents very similar. I imagined the new box would contain grown-up things. I don't really know what grown up things are, but the concept seemed fitting. It too was also filled with little notes, flower pedals, photos of our dating days, a bottle cap that says 'your kind of a big deal' on the inside, he gave it to me on our first date. It all seemed rather juvenile, and I thought, does this define our relationship? Are the similarities between these two boxes also true when comparing relationships?
Then I started reading some of the notes. Again, very similar. The difference being, when I read notes from my husband, my heart started to flutter. I found myself holding my breath until the very last word. That's when I realized, the mementos from each are similar in form, but the meaning, the feelings I get from them, is exponentially more significant when they came from the man I love.
7. Looking in that photo album, I see--
My son, Grady. I'm witnessing all of his milestones through images. When he first rolled over, his first steps, the big first birthday, etc. Then, the cycle starts again, with my youngest son, Jack. If a someone were to view these pictures in black and white, they may think they are the same child. The only difference being that Jack has red hair. It baffles me that the one person in three generations to have red hair is him. It's so weird because it completely fits him. I think he would be a completely different person with brown hair. Or at least, I would perceive him differently. It's strange how our attributes help to define us as people. Who would I be with red hair?
8. It was the first, but not the best--or was it?
My first apartment with my husband was basically a hallway. I bet if I checked into it, it would be illegal for a person to live in that minuscule amount of living space. We squished as much furniture as possible in the oddly chopped up rooms. And there we were. Just us and an 80 lb dog named Rikkah. We had absolutely no way to escape each other. We could be sitting at either end of the apartment and still hear each other breathing. But we didn't have to escape each other. So fantastically smitten, we could spend infinite amounts of time together.
Ever since that apartments, our living spaces have been larger with each move and eventually we purchased our own home. This milestone gave us freedom from landlords. Which I thought would be a relief, but quickly realized the opposite. We have nobody to call to fix the sink, or worse, when we have septic troubles. Being your own landlord is a lot of responsibility. It makes me miss our tiny, hallway apartment.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Theme Week 2
1620, Provincetown, Massachusetts. Aboard the Mayflower, the first child was born into the new world. His name was Peregrine White. Who know that after centuries, one branch of the 'White' name would end with me. Of course the genes are still the same. I will still be passing my, and Peregrine's characteristics on, but they will now be labeled Douglass.
It makes me wonder how long it will take for the 'White' name to dissipate completely.
Thinking about my ancestors historical significance, I try to recall important happenings during my existence. Where I was when they occurred? I suppose some great things have happened during my 23 years of existence, but none of them compare to Peregrine's.
When Bill Clinton was elected, my kindergarten class did a mock election. I don't remember who I voted for. Then he was impeached. I didn't know what that meant.
The ice storm of '98 stole electricity from an unprecedented number of homes, including mine. My siblings were devastated that they could not watch TV or play on our new 'cutting edge' personal computer. I pretended I was living in the colonial days and wrote in my journal by candlelight.
Then came the turn of the century. My family and I hiked to the top of a near-by mountain. Our intentions were to witness the moment that Y2K wiped out power to surrounding towns. It never happened.
September 11th, 2001 I was sitting in my 7th grade social studies class when our school's Athletic Director came in and said, 'The twin towers have been hit by a plane.' I remember thinking, 'Okay, thanks for sharing'. I didn't even know what the twin towers were. It wasn't until I got home from school and turned on the TV to get my daily MTV fix that I realized the gravity of what had happened.
Many epic moments have happened during my life, but overall, I am just a speck in the long line of Peregrine White descendants. Similar to being just another passing car on the highway, or just another customer at the grocery store.
But I am no speck to the child I helped to learn their colors. I am no speck to the grandmother who commissioned me to sketch her grandson. No, everytime she looks at that sketch, she will think of the artist. Maybe she will even pass it on to the subject and them to their children and so on. Or maybe they will love it so much, they will in turn get sketches of their own children. Perhaps one day a descendant of mine will be bragging about how their related to the great Felicia Douglass. Or maybe they will just discover their relation to Peregrine like I did.
It makes me wonder how long it will take for the 'White' name to dissipate completely.
Thinking about my ancestors historical significance, I try to recall important happenings during my existence. Where I was when they occurred? I suppose some great things have happened during my 23 years of existence, but none of them compare to Peregrine's.
When Bill Clinton was elected, my kindergarten class did a mock election. I don't remember who I voted for. Then he was impeached. I didn't know what that meant.
The ice storm of '98 stole electricity from an unprecedented number of homes, including mine. My siblings were devastated that they could not watch TV or play on our new 'cutting edge' personal computer. I pretended I was living in the colonial days and wrote in my journal by candlelight.
Then came the turn of the century. My family and I hiked to the top of a near-by mountain. Our intentions were to witness the moment that Y2K wiped out power to surrounding towns. It never happened.
September 11th, 2001 I was sitting in my 7th grade social studies class when our school's Athletic Director came in and said, 'The twin towers have been hit by a plane.' I remember thinking, 'Okay, thanks for sharing'. I didn't even know what the twin towers were. It wasn't until I got home from school and turned on the TV to get my daily MTV fix that I realized the gravity of what had happened.
Many epic moments have happened during my life, but overall, I am just a speck in the long line of Peregrine White descendants. Similar to being just another passing car on the highway, or just another customer at the grocery store.
But I am no speck to the child I helped to learn their colors. I am no speck to the grandmother who commissioned me to sketch her grandson. No, everytime she looks at that sketch, she will think of the artist. Maybe she will even pass it on to the subject and them to their children and so on. Or maybe they will love it so much, they will in turn get sketches of their own children. Perhaps one day a descendant of mine will be bragging about how their related to the great Felicia Douglass. Or maybe they will just discover their relation to Peregrine like I did.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Autobiography of the writer as a writer
1st Person
I used to be able to sit down and write for hours. I wonder what happened over the past years that has removed my ability to write so passionately. Or maybe it is not a loss of ability at all, perhaps it is purely opportunity. There is also the matter of having a subject. But that can't be it either, I have plenty of things occurring around me everyday. I know, it is the lack of teenage hormones coursing through my body. Before, every little event was life-changing. I could cry at the drop of a hat (and did), and love was a new astonishing concept that enveloped my every thought. Now, I have to wait a few years in between life-changing events, it takes a lot to get me to cry, and love is a constant. Although this love is ever-changing, I am not slipping in and out of it like when I was young. I'm in it for life. So there it is, I have uncovered the mystery. A little bit of my surroundings, a smidge of priority, and a TON of hormones.
2nd Person
Where has your passion gone? You used to sit and write three pages about what you had for lunch. Writing came naturally and you used it as an expression for every emotion. Now look at you. You can't even write a paragraph about anything unless it's prompted. What has happened to you over the years that has you stripped of creativity? Your life is beautiful and fulfilling, can't you write about that? Do you even have the time to sit down for five minutes? You are the same person, just missing a piece. It must be your age. Yes, you have matured your way out of leisure writing.
3rd Person
She seemed like a typical high school girl. Part of the social scene, dating, good grades. However, she possessed a skill like no other girl her age. She could write. She could write about anything, love, hate, her fantasies, or even just about walking her dog. And it was all beautiful. Her talent came from deep within herself. A sort of chemical balance that made all of her colors more vivid than ever before. But over the years, she lost that harmony and grew older, more mature. She became a wife and a mother. She had a wonderful life, but lost the ability to translate thoughts into words as she once could. The frenzy of emotions had passed and she was left without her talent. Though she missed it, she was not saddened by this fact. She embraced her new self and simply imagined what it would be like to have that mindset once again.
I used to be able to sit down and write for hours. I wonder what happened over the past years that has removed my ability to write so passionately. Or maybe it is not a loss of ability at all, perhaps it is purely opportunity. There is also the matter of having a subject. But that can't be it either, I have plenty of things occurring around me everyday. I know, it is the lack of teenage hormones coursing through my body. Before, every little event was life-changing. I could cry at the drop of a hat (and did), and love was a new astonishing concept that enveloped my every thought. Now, I have to wait a few years in between life-changing events, it takes a lot to get me to cry, and love is a constant. Although this love is ever-changing, I am not slipping in and out of it like when I was young. I'm in it for life. So there it is, I have uncovered the mystery. A little bit of my surroundings, a smidge of priority, and a TON of hormones.
2nd Person
Where has your passion gone? You used to sit and write three pages about what you had for lunch. Writing came naturally and you used it as an expression for every emotion. Now look at you. You can't even write a paragraph about anything unless it's prompted. What has happened to you over the years that has you stripped of creativity? Your life is beautiful and fulfilling, can't you write about that? Do you even have the time to sit down for five minutes? You are the same person, just missing a piece. It must be your age. Yes, you have matured your way out of leisure writing.
3rd Person
She seemed like a typical high school girl. Part of the social scene, dating, good grades. However, she possessed a skill like no other girl her age. She could write. She could write about anything, love, hate, her fantasies, or even just about walking her dog. And it was all beautiful. Her talent came from deep within herself. A sort of chemical balance that made all of her colors more vivid than ever before. But over the years, she lost that harmony and grew older, more mature. She became a wife and a mother. She had a wonderful life, but lost the ability to translate thoughts into words as she once could. The frenzy of emotions had passed and she was left without her talent. Though she missed it, she was not saddened by this fact. She embraced her new self and simply imagined what it would be like to have that mindset once again.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Journal 7
Fatigue has overtaken me and I have never anticipated nap time as much as I do right now. Last night was a battle between a three month old infant and myself. The infant won. I would be on the verge of sleep, caught between reality and the dream world, when BAM a prosecuting cry of hunger chose reality for me. A puppet version of myself would first tend to the needs of my pint-sized puppeteer, then attempt to sleep once more. Then the list from yesterday makes it's appearance. You know, the Everest-sized one. And suddenly the dishes are holding the strings.
Journal 6
Sitting at the table, surveying the disaster zone that once was my home, completely sucks the ambition out of me. That is why vacation is so fantastic, you don't have to trouble yourself with minute everyday tasks. Then you arrive at home and a week's worth of burden is staring you in the face. Separately, these chores would seem much more insignificant. Unfortunately, I cannot get the big picture out of my head. Everything piles on and soon I have a list the size of Everest. It looks like 'make coffee' is the next thing to add.
Journal 5
I watch my sister pull out of the driveway and speed off. She still drives too fast. I thought as you age and mature, so does your driving. Maybe it's due to her new Mini and the ridiculously fast speed limits on the Audubon. She says she 'still drives fast, but not as stupid' I think the two are the same. Maybe it is only me that has changed. I sometimes find myself (with my 'baby on board' sticker) going the speed limit on the interstate and thinking, past Felicia would be passing me and shouting obscenities right now.
She stayed for almost three weeks this visit, which is an improvement, but the visits are getting few and far in between. It had been a whole year since I saw her last. Too long. When she lived in the states, I saw her everyday. She was my best friend. It hurts to write the word 'was' and know it is not an error.
She stayed for almost three weeks this visit, which is an improvement, but the visits are getting few and far in between. It had been a whole year since I saw her last. Too long. When she lived in the states, I saw her everyday. She was my best friend. It hurts to write the word 'was' and know it is not an error.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Journal 4
Of all places to read about a friend passing away, I find out on Facebook. My mind instantly converts to age 17. During that year I lost three of my close friends. I am assaulted by my own grief and feel as if again, I am that other person I once became. A Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde effect. It took an eternity to overcome the pain caused by their deaths and here it is again, punching me in the face. My body shuts down as I imagine the scene over and again. Interchanging flashes of car crashes, funerals and obituaries speed through my mind, which has now eclipsed all other functions, including the ability to hold back tears. My husband enters the room and speaks but I can't understand a word he is saying. I can't even look away from the computer screen. I frantically search for words to describe what has happened, but am at a loss. I silently scroll up on the screen to a headline, 'Orland Man Killed...' I can't make it passed these three words. Man? I can't imagine him as a man. Isn't he still that kid that was a grade below me? I file through my images of him and realize the last time I saw him was over two years ago. Now that I really wrap my head around it, I suppose he was a man, but that doesn't make it any easier to swallow. I tear my eyes away from the screen for a split second and see the look on my husbands face. He is really concerned now, but I still can't force anything out of my mouth. I point to the headline, he takes a moment to read it, then starts with the questions. I am almost offended. Doesn't he know that I am paralyzed with heartache? Can't he understand that I am not myself and the person I have become does not have time for his petty questions? I have become bigger than anything he could possibly bring to the table right now. So he sits down next to me, but I still can't even look at him. Then he hugs me. At first I am adverse to this gesture of comfort, but soon I accept it and melt into his arms. His embrace is like the antidote. It jump starts my body and I am no longer impaired. It baffles me that a mere touch can be as life-changing. It's as though he has lifted this monumental weight off of my chest and I can breathe again. My thoughts are still of this tragedy, but I can now make sense of it. I am back in reality and begin to answer his questions.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Journal
Standing at the counter to make my purchase, I can't help but wonder about the qualifications to work in a place like this. With each word from the employee's mouth, I find myself closer and closer to climbing over the counter and finishing the transaction myself. He keeps derailing mid-sentence and staring off into the distance as if there is a mythical creature taunting him to make the next move. Every sentence. It reminds me of the movie 'Up' when the dog suddenly shouts 'squirrel', then goes back to business as usual. If I wasn't in such a hurry it might be quite amusing. But today it's just annoying.
Week 1 Prompts
1) Alone in a quiet room. Listen. What do you hear?
The silence striking. I imagined when it came I would be surrounded by serenity. This is not the case. I wonder where the tapping of a toddler's feet went. The idea of an infant's cry is no longer distressing, but would be welcomed and calming. Instead of these familiar sounds, I hear the annoying hiss of the bath water. The light in this bathroom comes with a torturing fan that I would love to rip out of the ceiling. Every slight movement sloshes the water around as if I am some kind of sea monster. Not flattering.
2) Alone in a quiet room. How did you get here?
What circumstances have left me without my children? No matter how much I try and clear my mind of them to relax, I fail. Asking myself questions over and over to try and make sense of this is maddening. Where are they? Are they safe? Happy? I suppose this hypothetical bath I am taking in solidarity is no cause for alarm, but I am concerned even in my imagination.
3) Alone in a quiet room. But what's really happening.
In reality I have attempted a tranquil bath to compose myself. The truth is, it is not quiet. I may have been the only one in the bathroom, but I was not alone. I heard the murmur of the perpetual cartoons playing on the television. Occasionally a tiny knock on the door followed by a 'momma?' Yes, Grady, I am still in here. The baby is quiet so I assume he is sleeping. However, I am on edge and ready to pounce. I am just waiting to hear the tiniest peep so I can jump up and rescue him from whatever feeble annoyance overcomes him. I am realizing that tranquility can not be planned.
The silence striking. I imagined when it came I would be surrounded by serenity. This is not the case. I wonder where the tapping of a toddler's feet went. The idea of an infant's cry is no longer distressing, but would be welcomed and calming. Instead of these familiar sounds, I hear the annoying hiss of the bath water. The light in this bathroom comes with a torturing fan that I would love to rip out of the ceiling. Every slight movement sloshes the water around as if I am some kind of sea monster. Not flattering.
2) Alone in a quiet room. How did you get here?
What circumstances have left me without my children? No matter how much I try and clear my mind of them to relax, I fail. Asking myself questions over and over to try and make sense of this is maddening. Where are they? Are they safe? Happy? I suppose this hypothetical bath I am taking in solidarity is no cause for alarm, but I am concerned even in my imagination.
3) Alone in a quiet room. But what's really happening.
In reality I have attempted a tranquil bath to compose myself. The truth is, it is not quiet. I may have been the only one in the bathroom, but I was not alone. I heard the murmur of the perpetual cartoons playing on the television. Occasionally a tiny knock on the door followed by a 'momma?' Yes, Grady, I am still in here. The baby is quiet so I assume he is sleeping. However, I am on edge and ready to pounce. I am just waiting to hear the tiniest peep so I can jump up and rescue him from whatever feeble annoyance overcomes him. I am realizing that tranquility can not be planned.
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