If I can’t change your mind

So it’s not precisely ‘early’ but it isn’t late either and that’s an improvement. I am slugging my way through the afternoon, the morning was a whirlwind of activity and swimming with babies and boys. Right now we are all dragging tush. Baby thrashing happily and cheerfully in his bouncer, swinging up and down easily and crowing his accomplishments. The big one is in the kitchen carefully playing a lego game on the xbox and I am pecking out words slowly and carefully as I try to keep awake and focus on something.

I should be knitting, my hands want to work the stitches and make something happen, but there are other things pressing on me, the fact the baby might not be so happy in a moment the thought that tonight when dinner is being made, and baths being drawn, and books being read I will not have the energy or inclination to writhe and I am glad that I am writing, I am struggling to find my voice, to figure out where it is..and what it is I want to write about or go to. I could write about today, about how it made me glad to be a mother, my arms around the little baby that has stolen my heart as the big brother he loves and adores taught him that the big cool pool wasn’t scary and unfun. I could write about the curl of kittens in a box at the foot of the crib, babies near babies and how this morning I took Gabe from his crib before he was awake and brought him to me in bed and we laid there, with a sleeping Daddy and snuggled and yawned and woke up carefully and when we were truly awake and smiling and squirming with joy to meet the new day I brought over a small baby kitten and he reached up a pudgy dimpled hand to touch gently. I could write about how having two children is more than I thought it could be and how it stretched my heart, my patience and my joy.

I could write about how I am tired of Palin and the noise she generates for doing things that are not honorable nor honest. I could write about Michael Jackson, how I have his memoral on with the sound off and instead of listening to people talk about him and what is going on. I am listening to the love song mix of someone else and musing on the universal adoration of Jack Johnson from 3 year olds to 30 year olds.

I could write about feminism and how it’s been sitting in my head and heart lately, an uncomfortable twisting of startling awareness and exhaustion. A fight that I am too tired to begin and too old not to. I voted this past election for the first time in my entire adult life I am ashamed to say and it seem to have been the opening of a flood gates. I need to vote. I need to do more. I could write about that, the conversations, arguments and discussions I have been having. The work of tryin to open people up to the realities of what is going on, trying to shake off the shackles of ‘just take a joke’ and ‘don’t rock the boat.’ But even here somehow I am not sure how far I can go, how much flak I will get and how comfortable I am standing on my own two legs.

I could write about the woes of the new projects, how the socks that I gushed over betrayed me with gauge or how the blanket that seemed a little hard but doable suddenly blossomed into huge massive project that I am going to be working on until I am -dead- people -D.e.a.d-. I could write about the new yarn that shook its tush at me and is calling my name.

I feel unfocused, so much to say and not sure how to make it all come together, how to be coherent and interesting, how to make it relevant and worth reading. So I instead, write about what I could write about and peck out words carefully and slowly while the afternoon drags by and the baby goes from happy squeals to low little murmurs that will soon turn into complaints and my time is drawing to a close. Maybe tomorrow I will have a clear idea of where I am going with it and find a single topic to write about.  And I will put up some more pictures I promise.

Hunter as a newborn. Vintage like.

Hunter as a newborn. Vintage like.

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