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Posts Tagged ‘being a mother’

Monday morning and as usual I’m running late. Em is looking for the calendar I tucked into the file cabinet yesterday to get rid of the clutter for the open house. I burned the bacon this morning, and I didn’t even look away from it that long. And now I’m reminded of those dialog boxes that sometimes come up when you’re installing some program or using an online form–are you sure you want to navigate away from this screen? I shouldn’t have navigated away from the bacon, not even for two minutes. I ate the burned pieces. Can you believe it? I hate waste. I ate the burned pieces.

Heated up the milk for my coffee too high, left it on the counter while I got dressed. Came back to the milk and there’s that thin film on top. The thing I least like about heated milk. And now Jim is telling me about what he’s going to do today. He stands in the room in front of me and ticks off all the places he needs to go to today. I keep typing, look at him and keep typing. This is my writing practice. No one knows it’s sacred but me. I try to explain. Other times I’ve been interrupted, and I’ll say, “I’m writing.” Say it fast and look up and raise my right eyebrow, a swift one-movement, the words and the look and the eyebrow, and it usually works. With the girls it works. But with Jim, when we’re under stress, and there’s the moving into the new house, and the replacing of the boiler first, and a new well, and a chimney sweep, and the painting–all of it before we move. Well, it’s hard for Jim to understand that in the eye of the hurricane that is called Moving, I can sit and do a ten-minute practice.

Dee comes in now to show me a rip in her stuffed horse. Mary Christmas. Dee is still a girl, and I tell her I will sew it. When?, she says, and I nod, not trying to come up with a timeframe and keep writing. And now, a moment alone, just me and the sound of a train off in the distance. Me and the sound of the washing machine going into spin cycle. The foo-foo-foo-foo, except faster than I can type it out. It’s Monday morning. I made bacon, burned bacon, gave the dogs five of the pieces along with bacon grease on their food. Bacon food, we call it and we say it like it’s the most special thing they’ve ever had. We say it in a loud whisper, Bacon food, and they wag their tails and ripple their long bodies. I’m dressed, don’t have on make-up, will make it to work by 9. Work through lunch. Search for a day or two I can take off to do the painting. It’s hard fitting in everything my life demands. Much less writing. And I’ve been doing much less writing.

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