I tried all my tricks, friends. I made coffee. I cleaned. I picked up my knitting and stared at it and then frowned at it and contemplated throwing it across the room. I lay and cuddled small people, because sometimes that works. And then sometimes I just feel angry that I am responsible for people and no one is responsible for me.
It was a funk.
I moved to confession.
I confess that I am jealous of those with plenty of time to spare.
I confess that I am ungrateful.
I confess that I'm a jerk. (That's not a real confession! That's like when you were in the sixth grade and you used to say, "Well, SorryforLIVING," but you weren't actually sorry for living, you just wanted someone to tell you that you didn't need to be sorry for living. )
I confess that I'm being selfish and childish. (That's more like it, Love.)
This is opposite day. No Grace in Small Things here. Just a mum who threw her hands up this very evening and said, "I need a grownup here!" (You are a grownup.) "No, I need a different grownup. A more grownup grownup."
I do have a cute story for you, though. Two cute stories.
I was lying down with Solo and Leafy today, asking Leafy for definitions of things, which I do occasionally, ever since I discovered that I love his definitions. I thought his definitions might de-funkify me.
It started with fog : "A kind of smoky cloud."
Smoke? "Something that touches the ground and the sky."
A sweater? "Something we put on our heads and our bellies and it makes us warm."
A brick? "Something that is heavy."
A Mama? "A shark mama? Or a guy mama?" A guy mama. "A guy mama is someone... who lives in a house.... and plays... and cooks and snuggles."
Exactly. Sort of. So what is the problem?
Becca and Cat and Renee are back from their trip to a wildlife reserve and other stuff. They arrived dirty and tired and we hugged them. And they told us about Becca in the night, chilly though they were in Delhi, scrounging around in that half asleep way for something to cover herself with. They were all sleeping in one bed.
She grabbed ahold of the lungi that was on Cat and pulled. Cat said, understandably, "Hey, that's mine." Becca shot her a wild-eyed look, then took a small corner of it and smoothed it gently over her knee. In the morning when they all woke up, Becca was wearing pants on her arms.
"Why do I have pants on my arms?" she must have wondered.
It makes me laugh.
Oh friends. Am I content with my lot? Or am I just faking it? Does it matter? Does anything matter?
Apparently it is time for bed. Time for oblivion and no more questions and plenty of hours between here and the space I will occupy in the morning. Plenty of time to be made new again.
All my love. Goodnight.