An Indian summer, it seems, as the heat we evaded and outran through June and July and most of August sneaks up on us, leaving all of the heavy vines and laden stalks wilting and wanting. And my own belly ripening, too, suddenly so very insistently visible, the baby already claiming her (his?) place in my body, in this world. I’ve pulled out maternity shirts and dresses, not wanting to stretch out my own usual wardrobe. I’ve told everyone. 

I am two, the baby and I. But I am two in so many other ways. I have told the husband that I can’t stay here forever, can’t grow old with shifting beach sands beneath my feet. But that is only one of my selves. The other knows we will stay, knows this place will be good to us, to our children, with farms and live music, with friends and bike rides and swims in the pond, with family nearby and the weather near spot on for what we dream. The first self wants wilderness and rebellion, off the grid, out of touch with society, in touch with dirt and trees and mountain bones. The second is still searching for the best way to pay the bills, to pay for the home birth in the spring and Montessori preschool in the fall and organic tahini and gas for the car. 

Twin sisters in my spirit, each grabbing handfuls of the other’s hair, scratching with sharp nails, biting, tattling. Neither can stand to lose, to give in, and neither knows how a compromise could even begin. 

I love my son. He drives me crazy. 
I’m thrilled to be pregnant. I’m terrified of what it will do to my soul to do this all again, the lack of sleep and financial worries and living always at baby/toddler pace.
I love the friends we’ve made here. I can’t stand the tourists, the sand, my coworkers. 

I wish I could sell my novel. Or two of them.
I wish there were reasonable half-time jobs, something at which I could earn more than minimum wage, something that wouldn’t mean 7-9 hours at a time on my feet, something that wouldn’t leave me smelling of mop water and Toasted Coconut coffee.
I wish, I wish. 

I’m knitting again. Making bread. Restless fingers, restless hands. Aching to work, to earn, to accomplish, without abandoning my son, without giving up all sleep. 

The scales shift and settle. There are so many good things. There are so many hard and frightening and worrisome and exasperating things. At least I am feeling. 


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