Sweet Home (No More)

It's an unmistakably Southern Evening; the deep blue air of twilight is almost too warm, heavy with the scent of honey-sweet blossoms, and cicadas are droning on in that timeless summer soundtrack.  A firefly winks at me from beneath a distant tree, a promise of the dance to come, and I laugh, delighted by his magic.  How could I have forgotten fireflies?

Moments like this, perfect moments, remind me that as much as I do not miss living in the South, I do miss certain aspects of it.  There is a deep and abiding nostalgia that will never fade- nor do I want it to.

But loving memories of a time and a place is not the same as wanting it back.  I am far happier in the corner of the world I've claimed as my own, in the life I've carved for myself from cold mists and silver rains.

(But I do wish the fireflies would visit.)

First Flight

One week ago my son traveled by sea- today he traveled by sky.

All in all, I'd say he's off to a good start, as far as the life of an Adventurer goes.

Reach out and touch the sky

It's difficult to explain how I felt as today drew near- it's not so much that I was nervous about flying with an infant it as I was feeling like I should be nervous about it.  The media would have it that anyone flying with an infant is basically a martyr- that your baby will scream and people will hate you, but there will be that other faction who will tell the first faction to leave you alone, because you are Noble and Suffering and Human Too.

But I had a sneaking suspicion it was probably going to be Alright.  And, honestly, what the hell could I do about it, anyway?  Nothing.  So why stress?  Except that I felt like I should...

As it turns out Neeps was a pro, so stressing would have been a complete waste, anyway.  He nursed on all the take-offs and landings (except the one he slept through) and generally was just very smiley and charming towards everyone in both planes.

(I will admit, however, that at one point another baby started crying, and I couldn't help but do a tiny, internal fist-pump because not mine!) (But then I did my best to exude support for them.)

GISHWHES and Mommy Guilt

A pack of my friends is participating in GISHWHES this year, which is a lovely thing.  I was invited to play along, too, but I had to be very honest with myself that I would not have the time and would only drag the team down.

(based on what I've seen my friends scrambling around doing, I made the right call.)

Anyway, one of the items on the "scavenger hunt" was to do five chores for a mother, and my Katie called dibs on doing that one, and then reached out to me.

Now listen, this is not the first time over the past year that someone (generally speaking, a female) has told me that they are more than happy to come over to my house and help me with chores, cooking, cleaning, whatever.  I have almost never taken them up on it.  Not because I don't deeply appreciate the offer, not because I don't desperately need the help, just because... well, because of many complex layers of guilt and inferiority and pride.

But here's the the thing.  My Katie told me about this scavenger-hunt-thingy she's doing, and I was able to actually take her up on her offer of help because her helping me was me helping her.  Just enough of a semantic play to trick me into being able to accept that help.  Which, again, I needed.  We leave for Alabama tomorrow, and my To-Do list was ridiculous.  But Katie did five items on that list- little things, really, because I couldn't trick myself enough to ask for help with anything truly arduous- and the impact of those five little things?  Huge.  I got home from work and my floors were swept and vacuumed and I literally wanted to cry because I didn't have to do it.  I could just enjoy it while I moved on to the next To Do.

So thanks, GISHWHES.  Thanks for absolving me of my Mommy Guilt.

(And also thanks to my Katie, who took out my freaking recycling.)

366 Days Later

One year ago today, I went Internet Public with my pregnancy.  Let's do a little comparison, shall we?

-he still hasn't worn the bib I embroidered for him.  I, uh, may need to remedy that in a near-future-photo-shoot...
-I'm definitely back to blogging.  Maybe not quite as timely as I'd hoped, but I am getting the sheer volume done, so go me.
-he was totally born earlier than the 12th, just like his witch-mother foretold
-he is still a boy
-we gave him a fantastic name (a wizard name), which was on the list, although I'm still just a teensy bit sad Nathan wouldn't let me name him Odysseus.  And he remains Neeps on the Internet.
-I still haven't blogged about Scotland.  Damn it.

It's weird to think back to being pregnant.  To tell the truth, I only sort of remember it- it's a blurry sort of time in my memory banks.  (Thanks for the mental protection, Mother Nature!)  Mostly I remember how that little bugger loved to dig his heel into the upper-right portion of my rib cage, right near my sternum.

And now he loves to lean onto whatever exposed flesh I have, zerbert it, and start laughing.  Much better.

Rainbow on Rainbow Action

In keeping with the whole Rainbow Nebula Fox Theme:

(Is it bad that I refer to this thing (and others of its ilk) as my son's "chew toy"?)

Harry Potter and the Delayed Gratification

Like any good Harry Potter Nerd, I pre-ordered Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. It arrived yesterday, but I didn't start it, because in this season of my life, sleep is one of my most valuable commodities, and I knew that starting the book would be antithetical to getting a full night's rest.  I was feeling a bit grumpy about it, but I comforted myself with the thought that I'd have plenty of time to read it next week while we're in Alabama.

But then Boozeday was cancelled today, and I found myself at loose ends.  You see, Nathan and I trade off bedtime-routine nights, and Tuesdays are one of his nights, since I'm (obviously) usually at Boozeday.  Now, you might be thinking, "Oh perfect!  She could just curl up with the book at home!" but you would be wrong, Gentle Readers, because it is a truth universally acknowledged that if I do not physically remove myself on my "off" nights, I don't actually get them "off".  I end up doing chores, and generally most of the bedtime routine, just because I'm there and I can't help myself.  So I have to absent myself from the scene.

Only trouble is, I didn't know where to go.  I didn't want to go to a cafe or a bar, because I didn't want to spend any money.  And I didn't really want to go to the library, because it feels weird to bring in an outside book to the library.  And anyway I needed to remove my toenail polish because I am going to a wedding next week and planning on wearing open-toed shoes.

I could go into the office and be assured of quiet privacy, but that would be just... pathetic.

I was literally in the car, pulling out of our neighborhood, not knowing where I was going, when I resigned myself to being pathetic.

Yes, I was so desperate to be not in the house that I was going to go sit in the place I'd already sat in for near on nine hours.

But then, on the way to the office, I had a sudden brilliant brain-flash.

I could go to the park!

And I did.  I did go to the park, Gentle Readers.  I went to the park, and I settled down in a nice shady spot, and I removed my polish while devouring the new Harry Potter story, and it was glorious.  I moved with the sun, keeping in the shade, until it started to get cold, and then I kept to the sun.  I read and I read and I read, and I finished it, and came away feeling so damn relaxed and refreshed (and satisfied with the story, by the by) that I feel ready to deal with the rest of this insane week.

(Possibly the best part was being surrounded by laughing, playing children, and knowing I wasn't responsible for a damn one of them.)

So now I know where to go when I need to escape.  Not a bar.  Not a cafe.  The park.  Dear stars, the park.

Life Lessons from an Infant

If there's one thing I can honestly admire about my infant son, it's his ability to take one full in the face, and just keep on going.  Don't get me wrong- sometimes he needs to cry a little bit first, sometimes he needs a little comfort-snuggle- but then he gets the hell over it and gets the hell on with it, bold and fearless as ever before, face-planting be-damned.

Most of us could all stand to be a little more like that, I think.