Apr
28
There are a thousand and twelve things I keep meaning to do like paint my toenails go to the post office vacuum out my car but everything takes time and even though it often feels like I have it in spades the hours are actually slippery and ever-moving and there’s never enough in one day. Even the most glacial periods are tricky in that I grit my way through them thinking god is it bedtime yet then scramble because they’re gone.
I feel frantically busy but stationary all at the same time and I crave the feeling of movement. My day is filled with duty and tedium and enjoyment and laughter but no forward momentum: a hamster on a wheel. I turn on DVDs and jump around the living room to banish the sensation of paralyzed limbs, of feet that fell asleep despite the long road beneath them.
My boys are like something enormous and spectacular mined from the depths of the earth, faceted and painfully glorious, heavy and burdensome. This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. This is so hard to carry. We hold them high and march through the days, bearing that which we love beyond all measure. My arms tremble.
I am so much more capable than I have ever been. I am weak and filled with shortcomings. I am a flexing muscle, aching under an indescribable, joyous weight.
Apr
27
The weather was positively edible yesterday, a warm lie-on-your-back-and-whinny sort of day, as if Seattle finally got some belated memo and was trying like hell to make up for its poor performance record of late. Everything was aggressively green, a rampaging Chlorophyl Gang; the sky was blue and yellow and it pumped Zoloft directly into my veins. We took up residence in the backyard and there we stayed for the majority of the day:
(Dylan’s stationed off to the side not because of noxious odor or anything — although did you know a properly steamy, stealthily-escaping-from-the-blankets babyfart can kill an adult STONE COLD DEAD? This is why you should never be fooled by their charming, squishy expressions: babies are always just waiting to kill you, either by cuteness, loudness, annoying-ness, or Dutch Oven-ness — but because Riley was throwing a ball around.)
(Also, the camera timer took this photo, although I like the notion that Dog might have.)
(PS: Do you think Dylan will be as suspicious as Riley when he gets older? It will be like living with two pint-sized CSI Miami actors.)
Spending time outside with the kids, in comparison to being cooped up for days at a time inside? No comparison, actually. Night and day. Tomayto tomahto. Dogshit sandwich, crème brûlée. Come on, SPRING.
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