2014-11-10 10.37.35

I’m as unpredictable as a teenager these days. I cry daily, sometimes twice. I snap at Thomas. I snap at the dog. I am constantly having to stop mid-sentence to choose words that my child could at least safely repeat in mixed company. Pregnancy is tough enough, people say. Women keep telling me they spent their second trimesters crying. And other women tell me that having a two-year-old is a challenge they never expected. Pile on top of that the seasonal affective disorder that runs in my blood, though I’ve never noticed it affecting me too much, and the simple fact that my introverted self spends all day with a talkative, boundary-less, filter-less, clinging, needy, excited other person (perfectly normal for a toddler), and I know it doesn’t require blood tests or Freud to figure out why I can’t seem to find my feet.

I know the solutions. More time with friends. More yoga. Less junk food. More time outside. More compassion and empathy for my son, more trying to see things from his point of view. And more compassion for myself.

I train for the new job this coming week, and next weekend is my last at the coffee shop. No more job limbo.

I’ve lit a fire in the wood stove nearly every day this past week. Scraped frost off my car last weekend before work. It’s dusky at four o’clock, dark before five. I’ve barely begun to consider Christmas gifts, and I know I’ll feel better if I just write down the plan and get it done. I just want the lights and the candles. I want to string popcorn with my son and watch him choose favorite ornaments. I want to hear him warbling with Christmas music. I need some magic to fight the dark.

The novel tapered off. I can’t seem to find the line between autobiography and fairy tale. I’ll get back to it when I can. I flew through 12,000 words in two weeks and then, last weekend, lost it.

Meanwhile the baby kicks and rolls and wiggles. Nearly a pound now. At the ultrasound, the little one wouldn’t lay still. It (she?) covered her face, squirmed, shifted. I can see my belly move in the bath. The closer we get to April, the more thrilled I am. I remember the baby times. Tough as they are, they are also simple. Snuggle, feed, change, feed, snuggle. Repeat, repeat.

to keep in mind

“Ordinary Miracle”

I have mourned lost days
When I accomplished nothing of importance.
But not lately.
Lately under the lunar tide
Of a woman’s ocean, I work
My own sea-change:
Turning grains of sand to human eyes.
I daydream after breakfast
While the spirit of egg and toast
Knits together a length of bone
As fine as a wheatstalk.
Later, as I postpone weeding the garden
I will make two hands
That may tend a hundred gardens.

I need ten full moons exactly
For keeping the animal promise.
I offer myself up: unsaintly, but
Transmuted anyway
By the most ordinary miracle.
I am nothing in this world beyond the things one woman does.
But here are eyes that once were pearls.
And here is a second chance where there was none.

[Barbara Kingsolver]

Oh, how “two” is testing my patience. There’s a new job in the works and an old one to leave gracefully. There is a baby bubbling in my belly and the days are shorter all of the time. I’m doing what I’m calling a “half-nano” (writing 25,000 words this month, as opposed to the official NaNoWriMo 50k), plugging along successfully at least so far. It’s sort of a novel. Sort of an HD/Thomas Wolfe fictionalized memoir, mothering and marriage and the ocean. If nothing else, it’s exorcising some demons. Maybe just exercising them. Taking them for a run around the park. Reading more in the process, books stacked up and tucked away all over the house, books with bookmarks the little boy loves to emancipate from their cells. Reading about writing and art, about the sea. Rereading the novels that are the dearest friends.

And, as usual, a little boy is calling. Time to go out, catch the last of the dusk.