If I tell you how life really is, will you still listen? It’s 11:00 am, the day begins again. Every two to three hours the baby button restarts. In the mornings, thankfully, this means coffee. Then back to bed to write amidst another set of sheets damp from pee or spit up. Back to the washer on the second snow day in a row, no school but the sun pops from ground to sky. So why am I thinking about ice cream when it’s 2 degrees F outside?
The baby lies next to me, restless from the threat of a mouthful of teeth rushing in all at once. Or so it seems. I hear the front door open and close. Boots, jackets, and mittens fall on the floor. “Sure is cold out there,” he says, “rushing into the bedroom smelling like burnt wood and mushrooms.
Snack time pulls me away from writing. One boy in my lap the other by my side. Wet socks and pants. Off and on. Into the kitchen for peanut butter and fruit. “There are good and bad numbers in the game,” he says shutting his computer before he finishes eating. I put the baby to sleep. The other boy leans into my leg and writes a music poem in his notebook, each letter and line designates a different tone. Spontaneous song poem: “L: blue, blue, blue—bluuuuue.”
Dune, dune pah pah pah pahhhh. What was I going to write? Knee to knee, his tree pencil skirts across the page. My fingers slowly tap the keyboard, lazy in search of silence to wander around. His legs wiggle next to me. Someone found his pink apartment. I don’t question his poetry, listen instead and spell out words on demand. “T-H-E…I know how to spell this.” “The fish lived with the black fish…It’s a poem about the lonesome fish. Read it. This is one I wrote about a very cool spaceship house.”
I feel like I’m taking writing life lessons from a five year old. “I drew a zooba zooba on the second page.” “What does this note say?” Thoughts fire every other second. “Hexagon, triangle, when are we going to make blueberry muffins?”
Hope your new year is off to a good start. Happy happy all.
(photos: shot in Vermont)