The Past Rears its Ugly Head and Ruins a Lovely Walk

It is a beautiful autumn day.  I finish my coffee, and tell the Boy that it is time to take the dog for a walk.  I pull on my sneakers, he slips on his "slip-ons" as he calls them.  I wind a scarf around my neck, and he wiggles into his hoodie.  Leash, dog, and off we go.

The Boy holds the leash today, and he is kicking leaves.  Today is Picture Day at school, and he tried to put on his suit this morning.  I convinced him that just the white shirt and vest will work if he adds pants without holes in the knee.  He's a handsome boy, and I suggest to him that zipping his hoodie will keep him warmer than clutching it shut.  We walk along.

He holds my hand, and never stops talking.  He points out spider webs, fallen nuts, and pretty clouds.  The dog follows as best she can, all the while sniffing and stopping to deposit her own calling card.  I admonish the Boy that watching her poop is kinda gross, and he turns aside.  He comments on the houses in the neighborhood, and asks me if I remember the huge slug we saw last week, and wonders if it might still be there.  I laugh, delighted, and suggest that, since several days have passed, rain has fallen, and birds would have noticed him by now, I bet the slug is long gone.

I am right, and we continue on.  He loves looking down into a ravine to which a homeowner has added a little landscaping bridge.  He calls my attention to flowers, and I think about what an interesting boy he is, and how much I enjoy his company now.  I really cannot believe he is already six.  And, as I often do, I think about what I remember at his age.

Disaster strikes.  At Christmas, when I was six, my mother sent my brother and I off for our visitation with my dad.  He dropped us off at school at the end of the break, and no one came to pick us up that evening.  My mother had run away.  January 4, 1982.  At my son's age, I only had three months more with my mother.

I look at my son, who is still holding my hand and attempting to get the dog to stop digging in a mulch pile, and I cannot imagine life without him.  And I wonder how she could have left me just when I was getting to be interesting.

Confession.  I hate babies.  They are boring.  They are annoying.  All they do is cry and eat and shit, sometimes all at once.  I loved my son when he was a baby, but in a grim way perhaps.  It was my duty, my responsibility, and I approached the task of motherhood vowing to do it well.  I didn't relax into being a mother for months, and it  was years before I felt confidence in that role.

Years have passed, and I have this fun little guy, who thinks zombies are hilarious, loves books and Legos, and correctly uses three syllable words.  He makes interesting leaps of logic in his reasoning, which while sometimes less-than-accurate, are entertaining.  He is sweet, loves holding my hand, and expects an intelligent answer when he asks about clouds or leaves or mechanical engineering.

I wrap my arm around him as we walk.  He is still trying to control the dog, who is hot on the trail of some remarkable scent.  I have a feeling that the next few months will be a countdown of sorts for me, that I will be cramming in all sorts of experiences into the Boy's life, as I continue to over-compensate for the mother who didn't want me.  I will fight off tears as I mourn what I didn't get to do with her, but will damn well make sure he gets to do with me.  And when that magic deadline passes, I will know that I can maybe let myself just love the Boy for being mine, and stop projecting on to him the little girl who waited and waited for her mother to show up and take her home.

Writing Time

Did you ever see The Shining?  I love this scene.  Yeah, the film isn't as good as the book.  And there are gems about writing in the book-- LOTS of gems... But watch the scene.

As a woman, I used to hate the scene.  I mean, who the hell would want to be married to someone who talks to you like that?  Oh wait!  Wendy can't get away!  She is stuck in a snowbound hotel with fucking Jack as an asshole husband...  Except, he is kind of an asshole even in their first scene together, in the car.  Jump out, Wendy, jump out!  Rolling down a mountain has to be better than being married to him.

Feminist interlude over.  Yay!

Ahem.  As a writer, I have come to understand, and even appreciate the scene.  Watch it again...  Go on.  I will wait.

I get it.  Every time I am in the zone, and something interrupts, I think of it.  I want to throw my phone across the room for daring to ring.  I would rip the brains out of the telemarketers who start calling at 9:30AM, if they had any...and if they were within range.  I yell at the dog for barking.  I loathe the clock for going so fast.  I get to write 9-11:10 every weekday.  I get an extra hour on Fridays.  My writing time is precious.

So, yeah, I get cranky when I have to do non-writing things during my writing time.  Bills, doctor's visits, volunteer meetings, answering stupid emails from jackasses...

So.  Here is my solution.  I am going to ignore the phone...both of them.  I will not turn them off, in case the school calls-- I am not an unnatural mother.  I will NOT do email, or Facebook, or anything non-book related during my writing time.  I do have the occasional meetings or appointments, and will suffer through them.

Oh, and I love this clock.

Destruction and a Hard Cider

I sit here before the computer, on a rainy Tuesday evening. I have half a hard cider remaining, and I just read the fucking funniest blog in the world. Probably the most offensive too, to about 33.3% of Americans. Mostly the Morman and Muslim ones. Oh, and maybe the Southern Baptist ones. Oh, and maybe the Catholic ones. Okay, so maybe it would be offensive to more like 66.67% of Americans.

I am pretty darn close to being ready for my touring class, which begins on Monday. The Boy is sleeping sweetly in his bed (I know 'cuz I just checked), and the Dog is done with her Chicken Dog routine, since the thunder is passed. The Husband is probably sitting in front of his laptop in the Windy City, or maybe enjoying a rare evening actually watching TV on the television. (He can only watch DVDs on on the TV at home. We didn't ever get around to purchasing the whatever you have to have to get television for free now.)

My one-act plays are cast, and I have read several pages of our final issue of Newsweek. Not that it is especially newsy, now. I am considering a switch back to Time.

Again, the mellow woman speaketh. However, don't worry. Was I mellow before? Just ask the Dog Cabinet. I threw away about seventeen pounds of shit. I found an expired can of dog food, rock hard dog biscuits, several old sippy cup lids.... (Just the lids, mind you. Why?) I recycled even more. Why did I keep just one plate of a stupid set of paper plates? Why did I find three bags FULL of plastic knives? Does anyone use plastic knives? Really? Do they cut?

Calming down. More cider.

So, after I cleaned out that cabinet (WHY DO I FUCKING HAVE THREE DOG PRESCRIPTIONS THAT EXPIRED IN 2006???), I next tackled the Boy's closet. I don't know why the top of his dresser was completely covered in over a foot's worth of stacked and semi-folded clothes, but it was. I don't understand. When I fold the laundry, I put everything in the drawers. So what was this stuff? I found a pair of girl's pants, a hanger without the hanging bit, and two opened containers of baby wipes. And that was all before I tackled the mess on the floor. I found a red sweater with clowns on it... the Boy won't fit it for maybe another two years, and would probably slit his wrists before being seen in public wearing it. Clowns, I ask you... Anyway, I filled a ginormous bag with items that the Boy cannot wear anymore, and are now in the basement awaiting the looming yard sale (or moving truck to Salvation Army).

And for the coup de grace, while the Boy watched his evening videos, I tackled the master bathroom. I am not sure why I found four empty bottles in the shower, other than the maid sucks and needs to be fired.

[That is a running joke in the house. I tell the Husband that the kitchen looks like ass, and that our maid sucks, and he needs to fire her, the joke being that I am the maid. He just gives me one of his patented "That's my Gracie Lou" looks, and ignores me.]

It was kind of funny. I honestly had NO idea that the glass doors to the shower were NOT frosted glass. (giggle) And I had forgotten what how shiny the floor tiles look when not covered in a soft cushioned carpet of black dog hair.

So, yeah, I went a little nuts today. I know that many people consider cleaning to be a Useful Task and Necessary. I think of cleaning as destructive. Honestly. There is nothing better than throwing shit out. I LOVE aggressively scrubbing something. When the Husband's boss was acting like Stalin, I tackled the heavy saute pan with a scrubber, and imagined that the stained and scummy surface was her face. My pan is awful purty now.

So, I have a clean Dog Cabinet, a clean closet in the Boy's room, and a clean Master bathroom, and I am now out of cider...

Does emptying the bottle of cider count as a destructive or a constructive act?