Commas and italics. Periods and margins. Sample sizes and hermeneutics and research ethics. At least for a few hours a day.
The rest of the time, it’s “please clean up your trains so mama does not trip on them,” and “do you need to go potty?”* and the fourth reading in a row of Clifford Barks or The Ox-Cart Man. It’s endless cups of tea and endless logs on the fire and endless washing of dishes. It’s bundling up in wool and fleece so we can walk the dog without frostbite. It’s a baby that twitches and kicks and shivers under my skin.
When I have a moment to myself, it’s simple, animal sensations I crave. Hot showers. Thorough stretching. Words that feel right even when they don’t make intellectual sense; the poetry of rhythm and consonants and implication.
Cleared off tables. A made bed. Tasks checked off the list.
That’s all one can really ask of January, anyway.
*he’s potty trained during waking hours, running around the house in shirts and socks and superhero underwear, so proud of his accomplishment. we’ve had no (*knock on wood*) accidents outside the house since we started diaper-free a week and a half ago. it’s such a pleasure not to wash a mountain of diapers every three days, especially knowing that it’s just an interlude before we’re back to it in a few months. “baby brother/sister will need to wear them,” he says of his diapers, one of the motivations we gave him to give them up.