And, occasionally, when the laptop isnt in use and I dont have a million emails waiting in my inbox, I think about this blog. So, I take a breath and peck away at the keys, attempting to say something witty or profound about motherhood, parenting, homemaking...life.
But instead my stilted typing keeps my thoughts from coming out.
And I am tired, Another cause of blockage. Baby is teething and wakes frequently, his cries piercing the stillness of our tiny hot condo.
And I feel distracted. The stress of life looming, pressing in on me as thunder rolls up the mountain.
We've only got a few more weeks left in this condo and then we need to find a house.
I can see this house in my mind, I decorate it with unclicked purchases on Amazon, with Pinterest boards called "next house," "design love," "someday."
It feels like "never" today.
We got one of those awful calls today, Little man fell at school, cracked his head on the ground. Dada drove to get him while I slung baby around on my hip. Reloading Facebook over and over online. Opening and closing cupboard doors. Waiting for news,
"He's okay," came the text.
He walked in the door and threw his tall strong frame onto the couch. Dada left to juggle work calls to clients, the stress of life with four kids in the most expensive state in the country eating away at us both.
Little man's eyes flutter.
"I'm tired," he says, as my mama heart seizes up.
I sit next to him, letting him listen to a book on tape, his eyes closed, face pale, nauseated with every turn. My giant boy. So grown up. Yet still my baby. His face just a more chiseled version of that baby, that toddler who stole my heart ten years ago.
Suddenly the worry and stress eating at me seems ridiculous. This. This boy.
Perspective right? My obsession with work stuff and finances and our next house seems...dumb...a wasteful distraction...from this boy.
Life, in check. Life pecked out on the keyboard. It slows down. One keystroke at a time. Slowed down to the rhythm of this heart, beating next to me, this baby in my arms, the other boy child now at the urgent care clinic, the two sisters making cards for the family. "How do you spell loving mama?" she whispers. "What about special?" Love notes delivered in tiptoed steps. Teething baby whimpering in my arms. Legos clinking as they sift through the giant box for just the right piece, clicking their dreams into place one brick at a time.
What is life giving to you? my friend asks as we walk to our cars after drinks last night (!! friends!! going out!! drinks!! yes, I did this!!)
This? Thinking. Adult conversations. (No talk about kids, we said. Trying and failing to escape potty training teething preschool woes)
Writing. I know this is one. And somehow writing here has gone from twice weekly to twice monthly. I let my blogging mojo stifle, stagnate, then lay forgetten, the half written posts that seem too stupid now clogging up my list of posts on blogger.
But the one handed pecking with the crabby grabbing baby makes this kind of release doubly difficult.
Oh thank God. As I type daddy texts to say, "He is okay, on our way home."
And I choke back ridiculous tears as images of brain bleeds fade away. (Damn you Google)
And baby screams at me and the cacophony of four kids in a tiny sweltering condo overwhelms me.
I need to write.
So I write here.
And I know you guys get it.
Dreams and hopes and the chaos of the day to day all streaming together into an overwhelming flood.
So we eat chocolate. And brew some iced coffee. And hit post.
And thank God for Friday.
|THE FUTURE IS AWESOME! Yes. YES.|