|Topic Review (Newest First)|
|10-11-2004 03:07 PM|
|Tanya Taylor||Thank you all! Please move on to the new thread that begins Week 2.|
|10-11-2004 05:15 AM|
|Calm||I do not say this lightly...Mama O - you are gifted.|
|10-11-2004 02:27 AM|
Just under the wire... it's still Sunday on the west coast! Here are two of my free writes. I ended up doing 15 mins for Home and 5 for Two O'clock.
Home is where the mess is. Though a fair bit of it manages to travel with me outside, too. Mango bits on my shoulder, tomato seeds on my jeans, unwashed hair and glasses lenses so smudged it’s like a revelation from the heavens when I mange to clean them and see clearly. The world is so bright and clear, and clean! Just as I suspected, the rest of the world is cleaner than mine.
But isn’t that the catch? Isn’t that the trap we all fall into? Some 1950s good housekeeping crap rears its tiny but insistent head and I find myself a “housewife" in the 21st century.
But I’m such a lousy one! There is almost a perverse pride in it. But mainly, I honestly find it nearly impossible to raise this kid AND have a clean house. I don’t think it’s just an excuse but I honestly know that seeing a messy house means I paid attention to my child today. Yes, I would love to bake bread to bring to my brother and sister just after the birth of their baby, but how much fun is it with my own baby hanging on my leg, in my arms? I manage to distract him with some flour on the floor but still, the bread making is an uphill battle. And afterward, I have battle fatigue! Ah, I sigh, there’s the bread. There it is. I made it! It’s done. Now get it out of here!
Seriously, there is not that same satisfaction from the previously meditative (tedious) process of baking. The science of it, the order, the precision. This is more like a harried attempt to hopefully reach the right consistency, stir stir stir pick up baby stir put baby down stir cry up stir down up pour down scrape up, lean over in a crazy angle so I don’t burn the baby (NEVER mention to my mother that I even went near the oven with the baby) and put the bread in. Phew.
So I have two loaves of banana bread and a flour-covered baby at the end of the day, both of which have received half my attention. Both of which, when all is said and done, I hope turn out okay. Oh, and I also have a nice pile of flour on the floor, the measuring cups strewn about, bits of lunch stuck to the floor (and my hair), about 25 different balls in various places, which makes walking hazardous, our mail spread in a fan on the floor in front of the couch… need I say more? Home is where my mess – my art, my daily bread (sustenance), my triumphs and defeats – in short, it is where my heart – lives.
Two o'clock in the morning...
For us, it was always 4 o’clock in the morning – that nether-hour that rests truly between the night and morn. The hour, in fact, of our son’s arrival into the world.
Oh, those four am fights: the blur and confusion and heaviness. Emerging into the cry of our baby and into the rawness of our own needs, weighted down by clumsy communication and desperation for relief…
Why can’t you help me?
I am helping you.
But you’re not.
But I am.
The inanity of the situation as suddenly our baby materialized between us, raw with his own needs and we would look at each other, the parents of this small one and with a mixture of humility, grace, and fortitude, we bent our own egos down and opened our hearts to each other, to make room for this new one, this person among us, helping us become our own people, and husband and wife, and mother and father.
At four am, I chose to become stronger rather than weaker. I chose to give, and give again. And again.
|10-11-2004 01:44 AM|
Just wanted to get my piece in. This was an awakening experience, looking forward to more!
The day my baby was born was a day of magical terror. When she was born it seemed as if both of us were awakening from a long dream. One moment, I was in sheer agony--"No, I don't want to see the baby's head in the mirror-I just want it out of me!" Then, as she finally slipped out, the angels rushed into the room and magic came too. It was like one of those movies where everything suddenly happens in extreme slow motion. Her father caught her and held her in his big hands like an exquisite wet little bird. He baptized her with his tears, and we were all as physically connected as we would ever be: from his hands, to her body, to her cord, to me. Lovingly he laid this tiny fairy in my arms, and instantly the universe was distilled into this one perfect drop of humanity.
She smelled of earthy sweet wetness, and her soft hair was plastered to her head. Her ears were still wrinkled, but her eyes were bright and searching my face, and when her eyes locked with mine I gasped and laughed with joy. She had taken me in and collected me as hers, as if to say, "Mommy, there is no going back to the way things were. Our journey together begins--today."
|10-11-2004 12:05 AM|
There was a journey that led me to this place. A divorce...I broke his heart. A passionate fling...my heart got broken. And then there was the first time I looked into those laughing brown eyes. I felt that I'd known him forever.
They all scoffed at the idea when I said - only two months later - that we had decided to have a child. It didn't take long at all. One morning I awoke and I knew. I was strangely exhausted while intensely filled with life. Through those endless months, I rocked the child in my belly, and sang to her. I whispered to her how it would be.
The first time I looked into her eyes, I had a sudden jolt of realization. This was the one I had been searching for. My entire life, I knew I had a soulmate, and she had arrived. She was a part of me, my very own angel. "Thank you", I whispered. "You saved my life."
I finally agreed one year later to marry the man with the laughing brown eyes. We were wed, and months later I was again with child. The night she was conceived was the first time my daughter recognized the moon. "Look Momma", she said, pointing up at the sky. "Moon!"
Nine months later, I panted and moaned through hours of labor, my little angel at my side. She leaned up against the wall next to me and huffed and puffed. My husband rocked me to and fro, wiping the sweat from my brow. Screaming, I pushed her out of me, into the light. As I caught her, I marveled at how very warm she was. Warm and soft and wet. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her for the very first time.
Life has been sweet within this circle of love. There will always be first times for everything. I hold on to and cherish those moments, for they are so fleeting. First smiles turn into first days at school, and on and on and on.
|10-10-2004 10:46 PM|
I only had a chance to do one assignment too - but here it is:
I remember . . . .
I remember the look on my 2-year-old daughter Aimie’s face the day her baby sister was born. Aimie had been in and out of the house as I went through a long, grueling labor. Luckily, my midwife Edana had brought her daughter Alyssa to keep Aimie entertained so my husband and I could focus on the birth.
I remember lying in the tub as the contractions intensified. Aimie came in and watched for a few minutes and I talked with her between contractions. She came in again as I was trying to push the baby through on the bedroom floor. There was a lot of blood but as she looked at all of us and no one seemed alarmed, so she was not alarmed either. In fact, she was almost bored. “Let’s go outside and play,” she said to Alyssa.
I finally pushed that baby out and we called Aimie in. I was holding my little newborn on my chest. Aimie’s eyes grew round and wide and a smile covered her face. “It’s a baby,” she said. “It’s a real baby.”
I remember sitting on the floor of my bedroom – naked, covered with sweat and blood. My husband Gary on one side of me, my daughter Aimie on the other, and my new baby Emily in my arms. I felt so close to my family.
|10-10-2004 09:05 PM|
ok, here goes....this is reminding me how shy I am. It is also showing me how rusty my writing is!!!
The day my baby was admitted to the hospital time stood still. The doctor sent us in for tests due to an unexplained fever. "It's probably just a virus - but we need to do a full work up to be sure." A full work up - he was 17 days old. A FULL WORK UP - it rang through my body. The pediatrition was very empathetic, thank God. The baby would have to stay for at least 48 hours (it turned into 14 days). They would have to take blood, do a lumbar puncture, catheter, iv, x-ray. My baby, my baby - poked, prodded, shaved head. My tears mixed with his and rained to the floor. My husbands strong arms held up both together. That night, nursing my baby was pure comfort - not just for him - for me. I held him in my arms as we slept on the folded down chair together. The steel crib lay empty; it stayed empty. We were one: both hurting, comforting each other. We brought each other through it.
|10-10-2004 09:00 PM|
THurs night, when I read Tanya's post for the writing group,
it was past midnight and very quiet. I felt my heart beating faster, a heightened awareness with my senses...as if I had
had a double mocha by just breathing and feeling inspired!
Jumping in the water!
The day my baby......
was almost born melded moment into hour. Time dissolved through the night like that Salvador Dali painting with the melting clocks I always liked. Followed my instinct that day with going down for a nap just two hours after I woke up in the morning. I had nine and a half hours of sleep...but thankfully I went down for two more.
My husband hadn't gotten much sleep the night before
and as we brushed our teeth, I laughed and said, 'ya better get some sleep tonight hon'. He fell asleep just minutes later
with the light one--as I read. I shrugged and turned OFF the light figuring I'd sleep to. Less than a minute after I turned it off, I turned it back on shaking his shoulder and shouting, "My water broke! my water broke!"
Labor was hopping, or I was...as my water kept gushing...and even as the sun began to rise I ran back and forth
for another natracare pad
and my doula laughing in surprise!
When you hear of women say their water broke, you don't quite know what they mean! Perhaps a spill like we've all had in our laps?
This was the PAcific meets the ATlantic
and I was swimmin'. The day moved slower--had it's ups and downs...was stalled at 5cm midday for hours, wailed in the shower and my tears helped move things along. I laughed at six o'clock when I looked at the clock, not knowing when or how much longer!!! (they estimated late afternoon)
There was strong concern that I may have to have a cesearan. In the afternoon they said the baby's head is turned to the side and perhaps pushing up against your pelvis
so they told me to not move though I was in intense pain--they said don't move and it will help the baby!
Pushed for three hours and the one moment that was the Olympic duh da da duhhh was when the goddamn whataya callit bar popped up and that changed everything!
(didn't know until later it took a lot of work to get it up there
but to me, it just appeared!)
I knew it was going to take MORE intense pain than I had felt but I was diving in and pushing her OU-godammit!-OU-OU-OUUUUT!!
Four minutes to midnight...my beautiful baby girl was born, alert and healthy! I was on the biggest high, awake almost all night with my husband snoring by my side, holding my baby ever so close and crying the most beautiful tears of my life. You made it and you ARE a GIRL!!!
|10-10-2004 07:11 PM|
|be11ydancer||Your piece about the day your baby was born had me in tears. Thank you for sharing that. It's hard for me to process my feelings about my cesarean and then to write about it. Reading your story really helps. It lets me know I'm not the only one who feels that way. Thank you.|
|10-10-2004 04:48 PM|
This is my first time posting, ever, to Mothering. So hello to all. I have yet to read any other writing submissions, ... I am afraid I will change my mind if I do and chicken out of doing this. So, here goes:
I remember when I played loud music in my car as the wind blew through my hair. I remember the pleasure of driving somewhere I didn't really need to go, or taking leisurely side roads, or stopping impulsively for a drink or a snack, or checking out an interesting shop. I remember a car that sparkled - no smudgy windows or crackers strewn thoughout. I remember looking forward and sideways, not worried about the temperature of the back seat, or the mood, or the fatique. Mostly, I remember, wistfully, the loud music of my self centered choosing. There were no songs about ducks, or frogs, or abc's. And, I remember that I thought I had important places to go - but , I knew little about the important things I know now. I didn't know the importance of wipes and sippy cups and nap times. I remember that a jaunt in the car was simple - a wallet, a set of keys.
Yikes, where do I find spell check?
|10-10-2004 03:47 PM|
Hope I'm not too late. I just found you! (It's Sunday, end of week one?)
I will do some of the writing today and post tonight if possible, maybe tomorrow morning.
What a terrific journey. I look forward to it.
|10-10-2004 03:38 PM|
that was beautiful!
|10-10-2004 03:16 PM|
I remember a dream all night, and the realization that I was experiencing a vision of childbirth, dazed I labored silently, alone in the dark. I suddenly appreciated the generations of women who had done this in reality. Why was I having this dream experience, I had no husband, was happy where I was, and was not thinking of having a child at all. Half asleep I pushed and dozed, and the dream seemed never-ending and oh so real. Finally I saw a child, very aware and beautiful. She said to me 'I want you to be my mother' shocked I pondered and felt wide awake in the blur of reality and vision. 'I will' I said 'but only if you send me the father' 'I will' she said, and we smiled at each other, then I fell back into a deep sleep, waking I remembered the dream and tried to make sense of it. 'Oh well' I thought 'that was an interesting experience.'
I remember two months later I went on a blind computer date, skeptical and not really wanting to go, I read my horoscope that morning...you will have a wonderful blind date leading to more...I laughed to myself and thought no more about it. Waiting at the balloon shop, under the towering buildings in a mist of rain peculiar only to the Pacific North West, I impatiently scanned the horizon. Suddenly I saw a tall figure striding towards me, and a huge warm smile. Feeling like I knew him forever we shook hands, then drank coffee, the secret love elixir of Seattle, and connected and talked. I heard a little voice whispering to me 'I kept my word' ...'so you did' I thought.
I remember my unexpected pregnancy, and the little voice again 'I am not waiting any longer, I am on my way.' I remember my daughter's birth, a reflection of the dream, the blood, smell and sweat so real like before, the muted voice of the hypno-birther, and soft soothing music, and the hard pushing that seemed to last a lifetime in itself. Finally a small hand emerged, and pulling herself into the world she followed soon after. Amazed I looked down into deep, blue-green, luminous pools. She was so brightly aware for one so young, yet really so very old. We stared into each other's souls in a timeless connection. 'I had a baby' I said, and they laughed, but a small voice whispered 'so you did' and we smiled secretly at each other.
|10-10-2004 02:01 PM|
I just joined this group yesterday and only got to write once.
I remember before you were born, sitting in the easy chair at my mother’s house counting your hiccups. Many weeks pregnant and waiting. Waiting waiting waiting. Time inched by and the summer made me feel so languid. It was agonizing waiting for you. I had to move across country and couldn’t wait. There wasn’t time for it. And now that you are here and have been here for two years and now that I am home with you every day there is time for everything. I tried to hurry you when you weren’t ready, just as you do with me now as my stomach quakes and turns with the hormones of this new baby overpowering me. Now as I am ready to sit and wait until the belly is better, you are rushing, encouraging me to go outside, always needing. And I watch you fondly even as I moan and mumble and belch out the passing nausea. I watch you and barter for time to sit and do nothing. You are obsessed with the rubberband ball now and it is a good way for me to sit and you to not hurry. We wrap and unwrap the rubberbands over and over again, just as you hiccupped and I tried home remedy after home remedy to get you out. It is all a pattern. Every hiccup and each repeating line of the fingerprint, the nausea again, the growing belly, the waiting, the rushing. We repeat again and again everything we do. It’s how you learn it all. I watch you discovering everything I’ve done a thousand times before for the first time. See you lean over and look back between your legs, discovering for the first time that your body bends just so. Rolling over on the carpet as you rolled inside me so long ago. Over and over. I am dizzy from the hormones, from the discoveries you make and the discoveries I make in you. You are the realization, the physical exaction of life repeating, of things beginning anew, of the circle of life. And I sit here now, mouth clenched against unwanted spasms, doing it all again, waiting now for the hiccups to begin.
|10-10-2004 01:49 PM|
I of course have no time for a fifteeen minute piece! LOL We all do what we can and I will hope to do more soon.
Thanks for the feedback about the I remember piece. That memory is so dear to me and it makes me cry too. I think it may be universal in its purity of feeling. Who knows, right!?
The day my baby was born…
I lay in a bed, strapped down with wires and tubes thinking, “this was not what I had imagined.” All my delicate plans of quiet, peace and womanly fortitude had been decimated by a simple set of words. “Your baby is in trouble.” Five words that had the power to change forty weeks of convictions. Forty weeks of gentle images and hopeful thoughts. Forty weeks of universal gratitude for the creation of my little miracle and the knowledge, yes knowledge I thought, that I would welcome him into a warm world with warm hands. Never thinking that my baby, my bundle of kicks and rolls, would be pulled from my newly open belly in a sterile room surrounded by masks and bright lights. And then when they had taken my babe from my one free arm and sent him with my husband, his father!, away to a place I couldn’t be, I was so empty and alone. They stitched and sewed and cleaned the mess they made so that all that remained of my experience was a fresh wound, tightly closed with bits of metal. Until I saw him again I thought that the whole world had failed to recognize that I had given birth, that I had suddenly become a mother. But as he was placed into my shaking arms and rested on my numb body, I realized he was my baby. He was quiet, he was peace and in spite of his surgical entry into the world, he was the most pure proof of my womanly fortitude I could ever ask for.
(now with a few hours sleep to help with the typos I hope!)
|10-10-2004 12:46 PM|
This is the only one I got to write this week. 5 minutes turned into 15 because I just simply couldn't stop writing. This was a very emotional piece for me to write. It conjured up a lot of feelings I had been repressing about the event...
I remember when I went to the hospital on June 26th to have an external cephalic version to turn Jasmine who was breech. I had a banana muffin for breakfast that morning. Had I known that would be the last food I could eat for 24 hours, I would have eaten much more. We (James and I) arrived at the hospital, with our overnight bags just in case. It was a cloudy morning. It was raining. My mom met us there. I got a room with a balcony. The balcony was covered in bird crap. Completely covered. They did some tests, paperwork, etc. After monitoring me and the baby, they began to try and turn her. It hurt. It hurt so bad. The two doctors were pushing so hard on my huge belly. I was screaming, James was holding my hand. I kept screaming. One of the doctors decided to try internally to get her to turn. I could only scream. They told me to try and relax. I couldn't. They stopped. Jasmine's heartrate stayed normal, thank goodness. As is procedure, they monitored us for two more hours. then they tried again, only this time I was given an epidural, which hurt very badly to get. So they began to push their boney fingers all over my belly and all inside. Jasmine wouldn't turn. They finished and left us with a decision to make. I can be taken off this epidural and go home - then I could go into labor on my own and arrive at the hospital for a c-section, which means Jasmine would be exposed to the drugs twice. OR I could have the c-section that day since Jasmine wasn't likely to turn. I chose the latter after much prayer and thought. I cried. I wasn't going to get the natural birth I wanted. I cried and cried. You don't just study an dplan for a natural, drug-free birth with your husband for 9 months and it ends in a cesarean. I felt betrayed. I felt outraged. I felt like Jasmine wasn't ready to be born yet. She wasn't due until July 5th. She just wasn't ready yet. And I wasn't ready to be a mom of 2 yet. I just wasn't. I was scared. And now, here I was getting prepped for surgery. Being injected with things, given an IV. And there was James. All he could do was be there to hold my hand and support me in the only way he could. And then they cut me open and pulled out my baby. They just kind of extracted her from me. It sure as hell didn't feel like birth. But she was healthy and her cry was beautiful. We cried when we heard it, only it was happy tears this time. She was beautiful. And now my healthy 15 month old is awake.
|10-10-2004 06:09 AM|
Thanks. I really like the way you write too. You're a natural storyteller. I'm glad we're doing this, and I have a feeling I'm not the only one. I'm reminded that I still exist, somewhere in the hustle and bustle of mothering.
|10-10-2004 05:52 AM|
|Calm||Autumnschild, I love the way you write. The details make it so alive.|
|10-10-2004 05:21 AM|
In the days before children, the carefree days when I traveled wherever my fancy took me, I carried my home in a box. A trunk, actually. It was black and battered, with brass hinges and a myriad of stickers decorating it's surface. The trunk was more than a ritual to me, it was the magic that made my home. Inside the trunk were various tapestries. My favorite was a reddish color with an Indian goddess seated in the lotus position. There were candles and crystals, and an assortment of bells and chimes. A box of tightly bundled letters in every shape and size, albums of cherished memories. My trunk has traveled all over the country with me, and to this day contains the trinkets collected throughout the years. Seashells from the ocean, a beautiful rock with layers of rich red, from the desert cliffs of Arizona. Driftwood, dried flowers, stones from the river, a half-burned bundle of sweet sage.
The trunk now sits in the back room of this place I call my home. My tapestry is hanging in the doorway and my bells are hanging in places they will likely get brushed up against. My chimes hang in the trees out front and from the ceiling by the windows. My stones and crystals and colored bottles adorn the windowsills. I traded my freedom for a home.
The day Sophia was born, I understood for the first time that I had finally arrived.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Just wanted to add...Ezrasmummy, you made me cry too. That was beautiful.
|10-10-2004 04:50 AM|
This really made me cry. I mean, I am wiping my cheeks right now.
|10-10-2004 03:55 AM|
Here is another one. As long as I can't sleep, I might as well get the creative juices flowing as it were.
The sound of a phone ringing, a child picking up and answering in a cool and practiced tone. “____ residence, _____ speaking, may I help you please?” No eating in the nice living room until we were 16. No earrings or heels (clogs included) until we were twelve. Warm heating pipes in the winter drying out five pairs of woolen mittens. Little girls everywhere, always running, always laughing. My big backyard. The nursery where I watched lights pass across the walls while my parents slept in the room next door. Hide and seek in the many rooms. Christmas morning waiting in the landing for hours it seemed. The color blue in all of its shades selected and painted by my father. Spouting all of this out makes me realize why I always call my childhood home “my house” even though I haven’t lived there in 10 years.
|10-10-2004 01:54 AM|
|insomniamama||I remember weaving a path through Fall leaves, toys and classmates the day I learned to ride a bicycle in kindergarten. More than joyful I remember feeling powerful and triumphant, impressed that I had accomplished this myself through perserverance without assistance, and knowing that my mom would be as impressed as she indeed was when I finally met her applause under the eaves of our classroom, in the long afternoon shade. But I was in my world with a toothy grin (that I can still somehow feel), although I acknowledged her every time I passed the roundabout. It's not hard to remember the way the bicycle felt beneath me: tall and senior, rusting and red, with hard weathered rubber handlebar grips whose ridges likely left a dimpled mirror on my palms for a half-hour or more on my way home in the car.|
|10-10-2004 01:47 AM|
Who knows if my precious six-month old will et me keep up with tis but I want to try.
Here is my first piece:
Lying on the grass with a boy, so many years ago. The night above me and the beautiful boy next to me. Love, lust, the hope of a future. He traced a line from breast to belly and spoke softly as if we were keeping secrets from the stars.
“You have fine lines. Like these ones.”
Never in my lonely life had I been touched by such hands, such words or such a cool summer breeze. It seemed as if I could never know anything more perfect, anything more beautiful. I was wrong. That one moment of beauty was the start of my soul reaching out into the future. Suddenly, the future I dreamed of has become the past and I can remember seeing a different boy as he was lifted from the new opening in my aching, tired body.
“I can’t see him,” I said.
“There he is. He is beautiful,” my first boy said, and they both were in that moment, beautiful and perfect.
Nice work everybody!
|10-10-2004 12:40 AM|
I remember the very first time I felt my baby move in my tummy - it happened at 1:45AM on a Tuesday morning. I remembered to look at the clock because I knew I would be writing about this in my journal. The baby didn't wake me up; I was already awake. I shouldn't have been because I had to go to work the next day, but I was.
When I felt the baby move, I knew immediately what it was. I'm sure I held my breath hoping for another I could feel. The midwives and articles I've read said that first time mommies sometime miss the first movements thinking it's gas, etc. And maybe I had too... but I didn't miss this. I sat wide awake talking to this baby. I tried to wake my husband, but he was out like a light. As I held my breath, I was rewarded with more, light movements. I fell asleep with a smile.
|10-10-2004 12:31 AM|
Carefully, I unhinge my shoulder from sleepy brown curls,
turn, turn, turn.
Softly, the other shoulder sidles beneath pale blond down.
Arms press flat, a prayer against my thighs.
Shhhh. Don’t wake.
A magnetic sandwich, my body binds these two together:
sweet, nutritious, fulfilling,
offering nourishment, comfort.
Gravity pulls their bodies toward my soul, my love,
Casting a peripheral glance, my husband’s buried body
rises and falls.
In the morning, when my quiet body can risk a move,
I will wedge in next to him, inhaling,
Exhaling the love in this room.
|10-10-2004 12:25 AM|
|sagira||Home is wherever I am. It's holding my son in my arms, it's those distant memories of my birthplace. It's also this tiny island I'm on.. this room. My home is a room with a bathroom and a giant black box that my husband likes to stare at. Home is this bed I'm lying on. Yes, that's home.|
|10-10-2004 12:25 AM|
|sagira||My "home" story is coming next.|
|10-10-2004 12:22 AM|
I remember the days when time went by so slowly I could swear my father had spent days away when in fact it had been only hours. I remember when four hours seemed like an eternity to wait for the boat trip to be over.
When did everything change?
When did someone push the fastforward button?
Why do we still suffer so acutely but when it's over we think everything went by pretty fast?
I wish time could slow down for me once more. Now that I'm older I think I could appreciate the scent of a flower more, inhale it deeply.. not worry.
Who am I kidding? I have no time!
|10-09-2004 11:32 PM|
This isn't about motherhood, but rather about my life before baby when I was a professional ballet dancer. I miss my past career, but it's for the young and it's time for me to move on and dedicate myself to being the best mother I can be...
I remember how it felt to fly on stage. The sound of the music, the lights coming up, the vast darkness of the audience. I remember the feeling of nervous excitement, adrenaline pumping. I remember worrying that I’d forget the steps but knowing every step the second my foot touched the stage. I remember the one and only time I became one with the music. I was the music floating through space. I could feel the music coursing through my veins. I cried in my dressing room after the show because of the intensity of the emotions. They were tears of relief and joy for what I had just experienced. I will never forget that day and know no one really understands it. It’s something you have to feel.
|10-09-2004 10:55 PM|
Baby interrupted me near the end, but here is my go at it.
The kitchen table is a mess. Two boosters seats on top - yes on top. Cereal and blueberries strewn about. Gosh sounds poetic but it is not. It is the daily grind routine. Feed breakfast. Don't clean up....sometimes do. Who knows if there will be time for me to do so and whether I will have the energy.
It is not in the kitchen anyway as our apartment is too small for that it is in the adjoining dining area. I don't like the table. I don't like sitting height tables I like standing height tables that require high stools. That is what I am sitting on now. Hmm maybe two years too many dinners with my morose father at a regular height table, him staring at me making me make conversation. A black whole waste of two years of dinner.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger I think not. What doesn't kill you might just make you miserable the rest of your life.
I love our dining room table. I hate the table itself but now so many baby memories are being built on it that it might someday have some kind of sentimental value.
And it is a table from my husbands youth. And apparently an unhappy youth at that so why he would actually want the table at all is beyond me. Just cause a new table of that quality would be expensive? Sometimes he seems to attach more meaning to objects than I and sometimes less.
The kitchen table is finally a fully utilitarian eating only table. Nothing else can be on it or it gets food all over it or becomes an object of pointing and wanting and distraction from eating.
The kitchen table is near a window where the babies can watch the neighbors come and go. The kitchen table is the dining room table.
I just don't have much to say about the kitchen table. The babies eat there I don't.
Growing up the kitchen table held 5 cereal bowls in a U around my father as he methodically poured cereal then milk and maybe sugar? The kitchen table was visited by a mean goddess who poured milk into my orange juice glass and delivered eggs with uncooked whites. The kitchen table was visited by a lovely warm goddess who was the source of all life. The goddess though had to also keep the god happy and that took attention away when attention was very much wanted.
The kitchen table was...what is that sound on the monitor? Baby snore? I need to check...hang on thoughts...Ah a snorey grunty thing but since breathing is still continuing...
The kitchen table is on the lovely back porch with a view all the way to the ocean and no father and no oldest sister and bowl of steaming oatmeal in the chilly october morning...
The kitchen table has no photos on it. The kitchen table is full of my dad's automotive crap...
Ah the baby wakens...or not? Are you up baby?
My fathers automotive crap - on at least half of the formica top. And a litter box under one end. And cat food bowl where my cat died under the other end.
Papa is sleeping...must go to baby.
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