Today is beautiful. The weather is cool and sunny. There are children romping on my front porch to techno music from when I was in the seventh grade. They are playing with an abundance of toys taken from my eldest's room, some of which may never return from their outdoor adventure. Inside, it is comfortable, but not cool as in a fit of anxiety over climate change, (specifically the fact that in 100 years we will only have half of the species currently on the Earth. Probably only the rats and cockroaches will survive) I turned off the air conditioner. I have a green glass pitcher of Gerber daisies, some white frilly flowers, but most of all these giant, abundant, flamboyant, fuchsia and white stargazer lilies which are perfuming the entire house.
Except the baby's room, which smells distinctly of poop. This is not because we are disgusting human beings (well, maybe I should let you make your own judgement), but rather because somewhere between my laying the child down to nap and the child actually falling asleep, a giant mud pie appeared in his pants. No, I haven't woken him up to change him. Never, NEVER wake a sleeping baby. Particularly a poor baby who is so exhausted from a week of daycare, where he will not sleep for more than 10 minutes at a time. You should see him when I finally pick him up. It is awful. His little eyes look like he has pulled an all-nighter only to not finish the paper due at 8:00 AM. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture, after all, and it breaks my heart. So here's to sleeping in shit.
My husband is so amazingly beautiful. He was sitting beside me canceling credit cards, unshaven and in boxer shorts. While I would like to say "canceling them at my request", it was really more like "You haven't done that YET! I told you to three months ago." But his hair is tousled and he smells like sleep. Mmmm. Do you have something you just love about your mate? I am particularly in desperate passionate love with my husband's breath. I know that sounds weird; it must be pheromones. (Do you know in Taoist love that is one of the "signs" of a good mate, if you like their scent?) If I could bottle this smell, if I could drink in, if I could swim in its deliciousness, I would. I read a description of scent in Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer that fits. "His scent burst on her like a rain of lights..." A language of love through scent.
I look at his fuzzy legs with their ginormous muscles and ask, probably not for the first time, about the four inch scar he has below his left knee. He doesn't know where he got it. Typical. If I had a four inch scar, a human being better have been excavated from my body through it and I would damn well remember where I got it. But that is the difference between him and me. He is so low key and I am so keyed up.
Today is lovely. Today is fun. Tomorrow is another one. I hope your weekend is as lovely as mine is turning out to be.
3 comments:
Your husband sounds great! Give him a hug.
Fool. I know it is you! And I will.
Hey, Misty, thanks for stopping by my blog. I just got caught up reading yours. And I feel for you - as for cutting yourself some slack... that's easy for all of us to tell you, but I know, I KNOW that when it's me in the antsy pants, they just seem to get tighter when people say that to me. And Salvation? Oh, just being responsible for yours right now is probably enough. If you can really give in to your self, then the rest will follow. As for my brother, it is a LOOOOONG story, but basically, his marriage and professional life failed due to alcoholism and he disappeared for 13 years. You can read more about it here. Hope your having more good days, it's cool and rainy here today.
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