It's been an age. The kid is three and a half months old. The sky gets greyer with each passing day, but I think I've finally managed to keep a lid on the spiral of black I was sliding down in those early weeks. It's taken some doing, but the kid gets cuter and more interactive all the time. Getting out helps too, and not just for a stroll down to the shops for a hot chocolate and some baby wipes. Two conversations with shopkeepers a day cannot sustain a healthy inner world for this weary soul. But I've joined a stroller fitness group which goes around the Tan once a week, and the physio has given me the all clear to start running again, which is both terrifying and FUCKING GREAT! My pelvic floor is not what it used to be, but we're making progress, and I passed the 'drink a load of water, wait 20 mins, jump on the spot for a minute, do 5 star jumps, cough, try not to piss yourself' test. (She also rang this evening to see if I was free tomorrow morning to be a 'fit-looking mum' for a photo shoot. Take that, self-esteem!)
The mothers' group has been good too. We've had our time at the health centre and our first cafe meeting went v. well, so I think it's going to stick, at least for the eight or so of us who seem to have gelled. We've gone to cry-baby cinema and mums and bubs aerobics and ran into each other down Chaps a whole lot. I've never walked that strip so much in my life. (Come to think of it, I probably have, when I was a tiny baby and mum was going out of her mind at home. So strange to think that I was weighed and measured in that same health centre room.)
The lovely K came over yesterday with tiny J, and we nearly wet ourselves laughing (literally) at the two of them squirming on the floor next to each other, and then gulping away like starvelings when we fed them. It's so nice to be going through this with her. I think my subconscious must have been still thinking about her when I grabbed CDs to take to the farm yesterday afternoon. I haven't listened to Let it Be in a million years, and didn't think about it until the title track came on last night, but that was the song we played at the end of P's funeral, when the coffin would have left the building had his body not been still with the coroner. K was there that day, although I'm not sure I spoke to her. But months later, in a bar, in the dark, she pulled a scrap of paper out of her wallet and said she'd been carrying it since that morning, and looking at it before job interviews and folio-benders. It was part of the funeral program. A snippet from his notebook that we'd photocopied for the back page. He'd written it down for the two girls he'd taught to read that year. "Imagine, feel, think, act, and so become all of your passions with ease and integrity. Allways - meaning in all ways - live a genuine life." It's been 12 years. It's not so raw anymore, that wound. I can drive past the hospital without flinching and the sight of the Supreme Court on the news doesn't make my skin crawl anymore. It still aches on occasion, like an arthritic bone in the winter. But I'm no longer one of the broken-hearted. I have let it be.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Friday, 27 May 2011
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Mother's Day with Tina Fey.
Old news by now, but awesome. I don't have a daughter, but I am one...
A Mother's Prayer, from all sorts of places.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty.
When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a tiger flower blooming magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
A Mother's Prayer, from all sorts of places.
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty.
When the crystal meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.
Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a tiger flower blooming magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.
Friday, 6 May 2011
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