this blog is stolen goods. that is, it is composed of small fragments of stolen time. stolen from my spouse, stolen from my house (ok, who’s read too much dr. suess?). stolen from myself. and, of course, stolen from my kids, bless their little needy hearts.
i’m often up early, bathroom grout molding over so loud i can hear it, dishes in the sink teetering, defying gravity and the laws of physics, dust bunnies blowing by like tumble weeds caught on a warm draft of air from the furnace, toys littering the floor like smashed dishes at a jewish wedding. mazel tov. just don’t step on the jutting sharp plastic edges. these things are made for kids, but they were not crafted to survive parental foot trauma. those bitches will cut you like a convict. watch yourself. i turn a blind eye to all this and focus in on my computer screen, pouring myself and my latest hang-ups out into my screen like a bartender serving up drinks. go ahead and take a swig, just make sure you have your beer chaser handy. the walls around me seem sturdy enough, i reason. this bitch won’t collapse because of a little neglected cleaning. it can wait for another day.
“are you coming to bed?” greg asks me some evenings as i sit with my hood pulled up, blocking out the cold. i can tell he wants to talk. he wants to cuddle up with me before there is a baby sleeping between us later in the night or before he or i falls asleep and are lost to dreamland. “in a minute,” i tell him. but by the time i shut the screen, he’s already woozy snoozing. well, i think, we can talk later. but i know very well that time we have alone together is as rare as gold these days, and we might not get another chance for a while. but still i sit here, typing away with no “h” key. just a little rubber knob-in where the key once stood. show me a damn “h”, damn you.
i skip showers, forsake my dental health so often my dentist would surely be shocked, leave my nails until they are gangly and rubbery and breaking off, put off exercise, meditation and reading. sit in odd postures on hard chairs with my back all twisted (terrible, terrible posture), my leg tingling from lingering sciatica problems leftover from pregnancy, nose cold, feet cold, typing, typing away.
if i am mid-sentence and hear joel begin to stir, i will him back to sleep. no, damn it, don’t wake up now…and if he does progress from stirring to awake, i fetch him and hold him again until he stops fussing and drifts off, but my mind is elsewhere, forming words my hands are aching to type. sometimes ruth will wake up early in the morning when i am writing and i tell her i’m working, which doesn’t phase her one iota. but i ignore her just the same. deflect her, distract her, even get angry with her, tell her to leave me alone….all to finish a thought, complete a post…lemme just get…this…done….wait just a second, ruth. just give me a second.
not to mention all of the activities i should be looking up on pinterest to make my kids lives fun and interesting and enriching. or the literature i could be reading with advise on what to do when ruth acts like ruth. or the recipes for wholesome homemade foods i should be investigating and making grocery lists of the ingredients for so that i am able to prepare them five nights a week, grinding joel’s up in the food grinder with bib in place no less.
but ruth seems to come up with her own enrichment activities and only ever eats all forms of sugar anyways. and joel will just as exuberantly gum a piece of starched bread to death as he would smash a home-cooked meal into his face.
in any case, i hope you’re enjoying my booty…er…that came out wrong. this stolen booty. argh (or is it “arr”?) meh.