Posts Tagged ‘Relationships’


Oh, hello old friend. Fancy seeing you here. I know I haven’t been around in a while. It’s not that I don’t want to. In fact, the exact opposite. There’s not too many a day that pass by where I don’t have an idea that comes into my head that I want to take here to transmit to the rest of the world. Except, once I have the “time” to put that idea down there is something that stops me. Like, writing up lesson plans for the next day, completing art projects, convincing the Jude to sleep/shower/put on underpants, brief and wonderful dances with that thing we used to call sleep. I don’t necessarily feel busy, but maybe I am. I get to do this job where I work with these really beautiful and wonderful and infuriating young people that I love, and I get to spend the vast majority of the day knee deep in cuddles and giggles and drool and poop.

It’s not bad.

But, I guess it doesn’t give me a whole lot of wiggle room. The Jude, in finding himself as a toddler and therefore and adult, tells me more about life every day. Lately, when I find myself having to take toys that are thrown at the baby or food that has been smushed into everywhere, he pushes out his lip and says to me, “Mama, you just broke my heart.” And it breaks my heart. I imagine him with his lover far far faaaaarrr in the future and I almost pity the person. He’ll be like his father. Too charming. Too silly. Absolutely beautiful and special, and they will be so deeply in love that any indiscretion he commits will be automatically forgiven. I imagine that he may break some hearts.

The baby princess is now noisy. She sits on her own and chirps her morning afternoon and evening songs until someone presents her with whatever her chirpy little mouth desires. Her chubby rolls are lasting and get coos and smiles everywhere we go. I like to kiss them while her scratchy little paws pull out clumps of my hair. 

My heart feels sort of torn. Everyone says that when you have more than one little person gripping at you day and night your love is not divided, but multiplied. I think of this saying a lot. I feel like my love is multiplied. In fact, I feel this overflowing of love. This strange happiness follows me everywhere and makes me believe that only good things will happen from here on out. But, I still feel like I’m gypping one kid when I do not slather this abundance of love all over them and instead dividing it up between them. There is more love, but it is still divided. Like, when we go to bed. Sweet baby D goes down around 8:30. We snuggle and we nurse and she’s out within about five minutes. Snuggled up around her little chubby baby body and smelling her little pheromone head and breathing in cadence with her short baby breaths without fail sends me into the first phases of the REM cycle. And then, without fail, Jude comes with pitter patter toes and a three year old voice and three-year-old bouncing feet and even when I start to send some kind of prayer plea desperate cry to the universe he jumps up into the bed and on my head. At this moment my love feels divided. I feel like I want to stay curled up with baby D and warm and dream about mermaids and pizza all night, and I want the three year old Jude to climb into his own bed and settle in and just go to sleep.

It is at this moment that I usually cry. I cry those real desperate oh-my-god-what-have-I-done-this-is-not-life tears. Then I slide my arm out from under baby D, and I rub my eyes, and I entertain and brush teeth and read books and finally finally finally lay my head down beside him. And then, we cuddle up, and before bed he rubs his nose on mine, for snuzzies, and love is multiplied once again.


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I am drowning in a literal sea of French.  And by literal, I mean, proverbial.  I took a French class online this summer to fulfill graduation requirements, and also secretly to sound sexy and mysterious.  Instead I sound, to be completely politically incorrect, deaf.  I’ve listened to pronunciation over and over and still my mouth just doesn’t move that way.  Maybe sexy just isn’t inherent in me.  My brain speaks in American; dirty, twangy high-pitched American.  When I try to make the sexy french throat noises it comes out sounding phlegmy.

To escape the tedious hours of Franconphone homework, and the half a snickers bar and can o’ ginger ale that I had for breakfast yesterday, baby and I took a trip out to our little square foot garden.  I’ll edit this with a picture of it later, but basically our garden is a four square foot box marked off into square foot sections with a square foot of yummy compost in each.  We’re growing strawberry (except that season is over so it’s just the plant), turnip greens, mint, basil, small white flower, lemon balm, and pineapple sage.  The turnip greens are outta fuckin’ control.  They creep up on all the other plots and lay their fat ole green leaves over the other plants so that they block out their sun.  So, yesterday, baby and I went to town on those bad boys.  I clipped and preened and took at will; baby stuffed some dirt in his mouth and laughed.

I brought the leaves inside and washed and chopped them, threw them in some boiling water, and then drained and washed again.  I’ve cooked up some greens from the garden before sans the boiling step (blanching for all you chefs out there) and they were bitter as your grandma’s toe jam, blanching is important!  I then boiled with some clams, chicken broth, ginger, and red pepper.  I made this soup on a hunch once before, traditionally greens are boiled with ham and spices and aren’t generally associated with soup, but when I was little my Chinese grandma used to make this turnip soup with clear, homemade chicken brother, ginger, tofu, and perfect squares of turnip.  Before Christmas dinner she used to set it out in little porcelain bowls with big Chinese soup spoons.  It was always my favorite part of the meal, but she always only made just enough, in a Chinese household there are no seconds.  This was my variation on that, not as good, but still with the nice turnipy flavor that I wanted.

Jude and I spent the rest of the day at the park, we sat in the lake and dug up clams and mussles, we buried our feet in the cool bottom and felt squeamish over what was hiding there and burying it’self in the cool darkness of our toenails.  I crabwalked with baby so that we could be buried in the foot of water on the shore and we climbed up the slide and slid down the steps on the playground.  The positives of looking like a 15 year old mom: no one questions it when I play on the playground or dig up clams on the shore.

Later, the baby daddy came over.  And I had put off French for the whole day until he got here.  He looked handsome and young again, like the way he was in highschool when I dreamed of his naughty little drug addict hands, even though guys like him never, ever went for girls like me.  He swam with baby-cakes and they sounded happy while I conjugated verbs.  When they came out I stood next to him and looked at him.  I yelled at him a little bit because I didn’t know what to do with my words and all I could think was to make him feel as confused and tired as I did.  Then he walked away and I yelled a little bit more, and then I wrapped my arms around his neck, and tried to choke him, except I just held on tight and kissed his mouth.  I must love him.  Even though I don’t want to, everything points to “love”.  That’s what everyone says it is, painful and confusing and the only thing you ever want.  Then I kissed him more and he kissed me and held on to me just as tightly, like he wanted to crush me and pull the life out of me, but can’t because he knows if he does he’ll never feel this way again.

And then he left.  And I went upstairs and snuggled with baby face and cried a lot while he laughed and we went to bed.

More French to do today.  It never ends!

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