Here I am!
It was the blog’s turn for a bit to be sacrificed on the altar of “Things-to-Do”.
The baby has been sick since last Friday. I haven’t had much chance to learn what his particular personality requires in illness until now. And evidently he requires me. It was back to newborn hours for a few days. There was lots of sleeping on the Mommy-mattress. I’m glad to say I handled it much more gracefully than ever before, the boon of the third and last baby. Today he’s himself again and I’m Dr. Jekyll-ing myself back to normal with every sip from my coffee cup.
I made the kids wait to carve their pumpkins until last Sunday. I was sure the pumpkins would last a week. But the jack-o-lanterns began gathering fuzz of white and green and were subsequently moved to the balcony on Wednesday. This morning I discovered the scary pumpkin collapsed into itself, a testament to the self-destruction that comes from a short life filled with nothing but evil intent. Ugh. So, it was disposed of in two plastic bags and I was knocking on my downstairs neighbor’s door at eight am. She was making her kids’ school lunches and I explained the slimy puddle on her balcony.
Last night the two elder kids were allowed to stay up late to watch game seven of the World Series. I was elected to run to the store during the fifth inning. I didn’t feel quite so much a “thing apart” as I usually do walking through the city at night as every open window I passed was tuned to the game and every cheer or clap found its chorus on the streets. We plan on taking my son out of school on Friday and going down to Market Street for our first ticker tape parade.
I’ve been lost in a world of Anne. I don’t recall exactly if I’ve ever mentioned it before, but my favorite authoress is Lucy Maud Montgomery, the writer of Anne of Green Gables. She is also the writer of Emily, Pat, Jane, and my favorite heroine of hers, Valancy. I’ve been lost in the blue hazes wrapped like scarves across the shoulders of distant hills and the elflike shadows cast by fir boughs playing on moonlit paths. One day I would very much like to follow a winding red path down to the rocky coast of Prince Edward Island or maybe hear the snow against the windows as I sit in front of a fire with a plate of russets.
I once read that a writer’s refrigerator is always immaculate. This was in reference to the procrastination seemingly inseparable from the creative process. I then read somewhere else a version I like much better. It was something about how it’s easier to give yourself over to the messiness of a creative mind when the world around you is in order. This is very true with me. So, now that my sink is scrubbed, bathroom cleaned, and laundry momentarily managed, perhaps I can, as Anne would say, “dust off my ambitions” a little?
I’ll leave you with a quote gracing the title page of Anne of Avonlea:
“Flowers spring to blossom where she walks
The careful ways of duty,
Our hard, stiff lines of life with her
Are flowing curves of beauty.”