It is C’s first day of school. She got up early, dressed in a blue tiered shirt and jeggings (what makes them jeggings and not just regular stretch pants?) and ate a fried egg. I walked her to school and she still holds my hand. I hold it because it is precious, like a Cartier egg, because I know as soon as tomorrow she will not want to, at least not in public. I dressed in real clothes, too, not wearing pajamas that pass as work-out clothes or what I wore to exercise yesterday that I picked up off the floor. As you know, I hate my hair, so it’s pulled back in a bun, revealing all my blemishes and acne scars. (I don’t think they are the first thing you see when you look at me, but they are something you see. Usually I wear my hair down because of this.)
Her teacher, Mr G was wearing a t-shirt. He is mildly effeminate, and half of my faithful readers will say, “Why mention it?” and the other half, “How could you put your child with a…. blah blah blah.) I’ll do what I want.
It is not hard on me that she progresses in school, and in life. I don’t feel like she is growing up too fast. I like the pace, I like looking up and seeing she has grown what looks like 2” in two weeks. I have had old ladies say to me, “You’ve loved every stage.” That is not true. Having a crawling baby was the second hardest thing I ever endured. Next to colic. I did not like having someone get in to things like the fire place and I was so mentally ill at the time I had no choice to, no, it was more than no choice, it was absolutely no ability, to take care of her. So I slept, and we’re not talking about a cat nap, we’re talking about hours of it, and God sent a battalion of angels to take care of her. Thanks again.
Back to colic – these ladies were the same ones who said, “I don’t remember my baby ever crying.” You remember wrong, women. Stop saying that, it just flips vulnerable new moms out. Your baby cried and you couldn’t figure out the reason. Your baby cried because you couldn’t get your bottle together fast enough, and your baby cried when you, all touched out and in a moment of desperation handed the baby to his father. You cried because all he wanted was you and you thought at that moment that you couldn’t do motherhood. You just don’t remember.
So, she’s at school and I’ll get back to writing more. I do miss her a lot while she’s at school. She’s my sidekick and we do close to everything together. (Remembering her questions about periods and pads. My answers and her questions were a little too deep for a G rated post). She loves being called my sidekick, and I am well aware that it not for keeps. She loves me above everyone, but loves her friends and will probably soon love them more. It’s bittersweet. I love seeing her grow up, but part of me even now is dealing with detachment.
I’m going to write at least a short story this semester. I’d say I’d write my book, but if I did everyone who “manages” my health will say I am asking too much of myself and not to make such lofty goals. It’s like a high school teacher telling a girl she shouldn’t think about being a doctor, but rather, a nurse. I have to say the rational part of me agrees with them. I need not stay up all night or spend all day writing. I don’t get that luxury. I have floors to sweep and beds to make. I have an infernal pile of laundry, always. I know most people have that, and I’m not feeling (too) sorry for myself. I wish I could run away to a retreat and work and talk with other writers, but that won’t happen for a while. I can’t. I don’t know any writers here, except for that weird guy who told me about this interesting story. He wanted me to write it. I told him to write it himself. Three months later he calls asking me to read his book. I couldn’t manage to get through it, sadly. My friend P said he was a “novice writer with big dreams.” I wish him well, but don’t want to share writing with him. I have no problems with big dreams, by the way, there are just some I don’t want to be a part of.
Got to pick up the baby.