Perhaps I should have started counting my days from today, my birthday.
It is, after all, the beginning of my 27th year.
And a marvelous start it was. A took at day off of his business trips, stopping in from Connecticut and spending a few precious hours with me before he took off again to Key West. He showered me with kisses and squeezed me with hugs and then gave me presents to boot: a new pair of kicks, a book I’ve had my eye on for ages (Freestyle by Carl Paoli) and the sweetest note I’ve ever read.
We went to the gym (where I did 100 squats at #120, and took a whopping 37:56 to do so) and then we went to Swing’s and I had some birthday tea. Over to MOM’s to get some birthday groceries and back home to take a birthday shower.
A left on his jet plane and my original family took over, with a surprise birthday call from my dad and surprise birthday yarn from my mom and a surprise birthday dinner at my favorite place to eat, complete with a sweet birthday hug from my big little brother who towers over me. I held strong to my Whole30 for the main course with an indulgent grassfed ribeye topped with buttah, but caved on the birthday ice cream. I do intend to go into bean’s first birthday with a happy disposition so I will keep eating consciously, but I won’t begin another Whole30 until after his birthday celebration.
It was so wonderful to see my family. I missed Karl and the gang and Maddy, but got a wonderful call from the former and distracted the latter from her studies with various memes and virtual lols.
Finally I get to fall asleep to the soft breaths of my sweet angel, the greatest blessing, the person who opened up the world to me. It was a good year, an excellent birthday, and the year to come will be grand, wherever we may go.
On this last day before the sun marks me one year older, my life was full of love. With noble intentions, I turned it to tears.
I wanted so badly to finish the cuff of bean’s diaper cover so I could try it on him. So, we stayed up, and stayed up, and stayed up, until it was 1850, an hour and a half past our normal bedtime routine. Bean was rubbing his eyes red and was so so so very tired. Still I stitched, stress growing by the moment and radiating to the two littles who waited on me in clear exhaustion.
And for what? There was no need to finish the cover. We won’t be able to use it until I purchase the lanolin anyways. I just had my stubborn pride telling me to finish! And I succumbed to it. There was really no need.
Reading this now, it all sounds so silly: both the fact that I messed up and the fact that I feel so very terribly about it.
What am I missing? What’s the secret?
Monday was lovely. Three walks, copious outdoor time, and sad, sweet goodbyes.
The first: A left with soft kisses, off to catch a jet plane to colder weather.
The second: bean woke when I opened the bedroom door, gazed at me through sleepy eyes, laid his sweet head down with a smile and drifted back to his dreams.
Wednesday is my 27th birthday. We kicked off the week with smoothies, sunshine, and good ol’ Sunday prayer.
We attempted a family nap, but it turned into a family battle. bean is quite the aggressor when he doesn’t want to sleep.
boomer was the only one who got any sleep, I think. That sweet silly pup.
I did it! 200 is in my pocket. 15 pound PR.
Now to chase that clean (I guess I should be able to squat it first :S)
The eleven o’clock hour rolled around and bean stated he wanted to eat, by crawling to the kitchen, yelling “na na na na” and demanding to be up in my arms to survey the preparations of sustenance. I’ve become quite good at cracking an egg with one hand, and on Thursday I cracked three with nary a shell to be found.
Bean snacked on coconut while we waited for the yolks to transform into dandelion-yellow butter, and then we did something different. I put bean down into his little chair and dragged his little table around and he sat, and waited. I set his bowl for him, and his spoon, and half an egg white and a whole yolk partitioned into Modrian squares, and made my own bowl of the remnants of the frying pan. Boomer did her best to sneak bean’s eggs while my back was turned, but he defended his own with valor if not finesse.
And we both sat, and we both ate. Bean used his spoon for close to 45 minutes, painstakingly attempting to scoop those egg pieces. He got one or two, bringing them to his mouth with exquisite care.
I couldn’t be more amazed. This sweet kid, just doing things he wants to do, even if they’re hard.
We had big plans to spend another day outdoors but spring decided to lean back to winter, so our excursions were limited to brisk walks. Still, we enjoyed the sun room and the blocks and boomer’s protests at the people walking by our windows.
It was an ordinary day. Nothing of note; except that on those kinds of days, everything is: the way the sun patterns ‘cross the dusty floor, bean’s gaze of concentration, a tiny paw peaking out from a blanket strewn over a napping pup. That feeling of relief and love as the door opens to welcome home the man who makes this life possible.
It is from these perfectly ordinary days that poetry is born. The question is: will I find it? Or do I yearn only for those cheap adventure novels?
No, no. I am content in my verse.
Prior to Tuesday, bean had never felt the caress of itchy grass beneath his feet. Sure, we were outside a ton, but mostly we were walking boom. Bean had been quite the cranky pants with four teeth coming in, so we did what we always do and headed for the door.
Outside in our element, we veered away from the dog park, aiming for the playground. Arriving, we found it full of people and full of wood chips, so we settled on a patch of grass between the soccer fields and the baseball diamond. Gutsy placement, I know, and we dodged a good three balls (two soccer and one baseball) but despite our attitude of vigilance, “carefree” was the spirit of the day. Bean, amazed by all of the wondrous things to be found on the ground and then put to his mouth, forgot entirely about his sore gums. Boom sat patiently. I practiced pistols (and got them!) though, given the incline of our grassy knoll, they were more like water guns.
Just one more. Tuesday, in truth, passed in a daze. The six days of reading past midnight only to be woken at 0200, and then 0500, to take care of bean had beat me into a stupor from which I didn’t arise until I went to bed a 1800, and then at 1900. So, here in my day’s stead: another glimpse into the Great Mystery.
“That a good man may have his back to the wall is no more than we knew already, but that God could have His back to the wall is a boast for all insurgents forever. Christianity is the only religion on earth that has felt that omnipotence made God incomplete. Christianity alone felt that God, to be wholly God, must have been a rebel as well as a king. Alone of all creeds, Christianity has added courage to the virtues of the Creator. For the only courage worth calling courage must necessarily mean that the soul passes a breaking point — and does not break. In this indeed I approach a matter more dark and awful than it is easy to discuss; and I apologize in advance if any of my phrases fall wrong or seem irreverent touching a matter which the greatest saints and thinkers have justly feared to approach. But in the terrific tale of the Passion there is a distinct emotional suggestion that the author of all things (in some unthinkable way) went not only through agony, but through doubt. It is written, “Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.” No; but the Lord thy God may tempt Himself; and it seems as if this was what happened in Gethsemane. In a garden Satan tempted man: and in a garden God tempted God. He passed in some superhuman manner through our human horror of pessimism. When the world shook and the sun was wiped out of heaven, it was not at the crucifixion, but at the cry from the cross: the cry which confessed that God was forsaken of God. And now let the revolutionists choose a creed from all the creeds and a god from all the gods of the world, carefully weighing all the gods of inevitable recurrence and of unalterable power. They will not find another god who has himself been in revolt. Nay (the matter grows too difficult for human speech), but let the atheists themselves choose a god. They will find only one divinity who ever uttered their isolation; only one religion in which God seemed for an instant to be an atheist.”
― G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy