I often star in my own movie

I lost a post last night, and waved goodbye to it as it fluttered out my window and into that land where lost posts go.  I've been doing this for too long to be losing posts willy-nilly like that, but there you have it.  "Live and don't learn," that's my motto, to quote Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes.

It was terrifically interesting, too.  Actually, not really, I think I talked about catheters and my bladder.  You didn't miss much, but you'll be glad to know that my bladder is working okay again. And I talked about my desire to show people my wound, and how I have good friends who humor me, but how I still want a nurse. I like it when someone comes in to my room and checks on my incision and says, "Oh dearie, you're bruised. Poor thingy," and then clucks with her tongue and pats me on the head, and I gaze up at her patiently with so much strength, bearing the pain so heroically.  I'm a good patient, a good heroine in my own drama. I also like watching the food channel with absolutely no guilt, because that's what you DO in the hospital. Watch TV, even in the middle of the day, even at 1:00 in the morning.

But other than the lack of Rachael Ray and nurses who coddle me, being home has been so sweet, and hard.  Six weeks is a long time to not be able to carry anything over 10 lbs.  The nurse told me the rules as I was being discharged, and I gave her a look that oozed, Come on, you are NOT serious, can you seriously expect that from me? Six WEEKS?  She nodded, very serious.  I don't think I'll make it, I keep forgetting to not pick up my kids. What are you supposed to do when a little missile in the shape of an edible baby comes hurtling towards you?

Unfortunately, not pick him up, in my case.  So I've been sitting on the floor with my kids a lot, which the Leaf Baby loves, he always loves it when I sit on the floor. He thinks it's great fun. I honestly can't believe how this kid is becoming a kid.  I know I wrote about it recently, but when he turns around and sits on my lap like I'm a little chair for him, and I can see on his face that he thinks that this is just so cool, I feel these twinges, these whispery feelings like please don't grow up. And then sometimes this brings a wave of grief and I feel empty again, missing that little baby hope inside me.  I was looking at a recent photo of me, one from my Change series, I think, and I looked so happy in the photo that the grief ripples started up again.  I don't feel like that girl. I feel curled up, protective. I feel wounded.

Mostly though, this grief has made me thankful. I've been given so much. I marvel over my kids, their bodies. I hold my daughter and trip out thinking about her limbs, arms and legs which are growing. I can't believe they're mine, can't believe I've been trusted like this. I guess I'm slow to understanding my own vocation. Sometimes I've whined about it. I probably will again. But I'm treasuring these days.

Last night we had a big bonfire, and a worship circle around it. The older kids love to be allowed to stay up late for these, we've been doing them weekly, and we had a bunch of guests at the Land, which was nice. There is a girl who will be living with us now, up till now she has been living in Golden Gate Park near our old home in San Francisco. Also some travelers who Chinua met in Arcata when he was taking photographs there. A couple of dogs, some more guests, our little community, and my children with me. YaYa sat in my lap and Kid A lay with his head on my knee and the firelight made everyone beautiful and we all sang. I felt very blessed, like God has just opened his hands up and poured goodness into my arms, spilling around me like grain pouring from a chute. The feeling stayed with me even as YaYa pitched a mother of a fit when I decided it was time for bed. I smiled at my tired crying girl as I pyjama'd her against her will and thought-- I know how you feel.