I’m just going to let this fly because I’ve been feeling like the biggest writing boob ever. No, wait, don’t feel bad for me, I do this to myself with the best intentions. I want to write and then I get in some kind of writing groove and everything is all sunny and shiny and happy and wow and then *smash* the world stops for just a second and the crack in the fabric of the universe gets bigger. Know what I mean?
I mean, sometimes.
I have these cats and one cat is the dad cat and one cat is the daughter cat and the daughter cat gets all loud and mrowly sometimes and the only way to quiet her down is if the dad cat comes up behind her and grabs her scruff with his teeth and sits on her butt. It’s really kinda weird.
Our Christmas tree is still up in the living room because we spent last weekend doing things we really wanted to do and letting ourselves relax in a way we haven’t for a very long time. Now I’m really ready for the tree to go. I feel like the house needs to be shaken so all the excess glitter can fall to the side and only the important things can stick.
I find friendships to be hard because everyone has a different standard for boundaries and different expectations for what they think their friendships should be. I like a good friend, and a good laugh. I like space and breath too. I don’t see a lot of people a lot of the time because we all have places to be and things to do and we all need time for contemplation. When I do see people I haven’t seen in a long while I’m usually giddy and sometimes I can’t stop talking even when I like the sound of their voice.
Since Christmas I’ve been reading 5 books, but just yesterday I finished one. It was a memoir and some of it I loved and some of it frustrated me because I wanted her to move on with herself and not be so caught up in the idea of being single post 30. I’m not one to talk because I don’t know what it is to be single at this age and how hard it must be to have friends and family constantly at you to find the “right one” and settle down and start breeding. I just wish the author could have enjoyed herself more and put less pressure on stupid societal expectations.
I’m reading another memoir that I want to love, but I’m having the worst time relating the the author and I hate to say that I feel like she’s condescending and it gets on my nerves. I thought maybe it was just me so I read some reviews online. Turns out it’s about 50-50 love/hate. I’m still reading the book. I’m about half-way there.
Yesterday, I took my kids to the Y and they almost spent the entire time in the play area, but they didn’t. Instead they got to fighting about a toy and the little one bonked herself in the nose and it started bleeding a little. I was on a stationary bike reading a collection of short stories by Truman Capote pretending that was the only thing I had to accomplished for the day when I saw them: the lady and my daughter scanning the room. I didn’t get to finish my work-out, but I love the way daughters curl up on their mamas.
My oldest daughter has taken to expounding on certain aspects of life and instruction while punctuating with a pointed finger bouncing through the air. “And Mom,” she says, “Make sure you get good sleep.” My husband says that’s her being me and I know he’s right.
Somewhere upstairs doors are opening and little girls are waking up. It isn’t dark outside yet. The days are getting longer. Soon it will be warm again.