This was going to be a different kind of post, but before I got back to the computer, my husband talked me down out of my tree. I don't call him a Superstar for nothin. Superstar Husbands can talk their wives who are suffering even out of banyan trees, even with vines so vast and branchlike that almost a wife could just disappear. Or turn into a Langur monkey and go loping off into the distance.
I'll just say that Post Partum Depression sucks. And it's so much better now than with the other sweet babies, so really I am so, so blessed. But life has lost a lot of its taste, and the space from peace to stress is small and puny.
I'm biding my time. I know it can't last.
Meanwhile, I'm reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe to Kid A and YaYa and they hang on every word. There's not much that's more rewarding to me than reading a book that I LOVE to my kids.
I've been admiring the art of Bill Peet. Sometimes I think that what I'd REALLY like to be when I grow up is an illustrator.
We are awash with Canadian girls, in this here community. Two wonderful whippersnappers arrived a couple of weeks back, and Becca arrived a couple of days ago, so now there are four of us Canucks hanging out with three Americans (six, if you count the kids, only six because who knows what Solo's nationality really is) and our friend Miriam, who is German. Our community and meditation practices are taking shape more and more, a pool that is so fun to splash around in.
Solo's thighs are delicious.
Renee teaches West African dance on the beach on Wednesdays and it's so fun.
And my irritation and dryness and itchiness when I have to sit anywhere for any length of time, my lack of enthusiasm, my lines of sadness. They can't last.