I am overdue for a brilliant thought. Everything that passes through my mind is either mundane or banal.
Between the 2 and the 5,
Fourth unit from the 134,
Nestled by two bungalows,
Trees, plants, little grass.
The nicest couples,
With one sweet baby
One cat, and one iquana.
Too urban to be a suburb,
Too nice to be part of LA,
Neither the one,
Nor the other.
Above, our bedrooms,
Below, the garage,
It’s small, and not ours,
But it’s our home,
and the home of sweet memories
growing into parenthood.
heather, when i read your stuff, i just feel silly posting mine… i mean, i can really feel the difference in a poet… and pseudo poet, if that makes sense.
i don’t know if the images i’ve conjured up are accurate, but… you’ve succeeded in describing things in such a way that i could see it. even if it is my own version. heh
It made me feel cozy,like I was in a warm safe place, the feeling you get when you’re snuggled in your bed on a cold morning and you just want to stay there
Last night my husband said to me, “I think baby pajamas were designed to look extra cute on babies.”
Weekly Anamnesis is a cyber writing project hosted by Natalie.
I stared at the 60%, written in red, in horror. I had never, ever failed an essay before. What happened? I didn’t shrug off the assignment, I really had tried. There was no instruction, no guidelines in redoing the paper, just the failing grade.
Last year she wouldn’t have failed me. But if I did do poorly she would have helped me.
The previous year I had been golden. But everything deteriorated the following year. I don’t know if I changed in the way I treated her (I never did so intentionally -I liked her), but halfway through the semester I suddenly realized I was in serious trouble.
One night on the road I finally broke down and told my mother. Crying and driving, I did my best to see the road, through the foggy window, through the ice on the windshield, through the November ice-fog of Whitehorse. “She hates me. I don’t know why, but she hates me.”
How could I be so sure it was a personal attack? After all, we had a good relationship prior to this term.
“I don’t know, she’s a completely different person.”
Mum did her best to be calm and collected, or to appear so to me. I know we weren’t the only ones in the car and I know she knew my driving was seriously compromised. She must have been white-knuckling the whole drive, but angel that she is, she didn’t let on to me. She sat in (petrified?) silence allowing me to sort through the issue.
Finally, “she must be going through menopause.” I concluded. It wasn’t improbable. Her only daughter was my age.
“How long does that last?”
“About seven years,” was Mum’s reply.
“Oh great,” I moaned, “I’m going to spend the next seven years trying to pass English!”
While I didn’t get the stellar marks I desired, I did pass that class on my first try. The lesson I learned that night was a hard lesson to learn, but it proved very useful in the years to follow. Menopause was not the conclusion with each subsequent teacher who proved unreasonable (especially Mr. Mathies!), but if I could find a reason to excuse the behaviour, then I could get on with my own education and pity the unhappy instructor.
Last Monday night when he finally signed “please” without my guiding hand I was elated.
Yay! I’ll have a polite son!
Something clicked that night. He finally figured out that moving his arms not only got attention but conveyed meaning. It was an explosion of words. By this last weekend (five days from the breakthrough) he could sign “please”, “milk”, “eat”, “all done”, and “pray”.
I am overwhealmed. Those were the only signs I had prepared. I have websites, sure, and we’re working now on “thank you” (which will be slower, as he isn’t immediately rewarded). But what should I teach next?
I’m thinking “diaper”. Any suggestions?
Today I feel so blessed.
I have friends who respect me enough to tell me the truth,
I have a husband who works a job he hardly likes so that I can stay home with our son (I hope that changes, though, I hope he can get a more fulfilling job),
and I have a baby who loves to pray.
Somewhere in me is the capacity to be deep, to spelunk soul caverns. I haven’t been exploring in a while, but I know that I’m capable of going further. If I really put my mind to it I’m sure I could, but being mediocre and superficial has its benefits: it’s pretty and I don’t have to do anything.
But I don’t think I can stay up here too long. Too much fresh air is definitely stifling.
(Or is it that I feel vacant because it’s 5:30 am?)