Weeks of illness and chaos have wreaked havoc on my sleep schedule. Daylight Savings doesn't help. It wouldn't bother me, except it's opposite T's schedule. Of course, he's always rushing off to work, but I'd certainly have more "see you later" kisses.
Last night I tried to begin to move to an earlier bed time. I just have so much to do right now there really aren't enough hours in the day. I'm not writing, which makes me tense. The house is full of furniture from Mom's because she's moving to Texas, maybe Thursday, maybe Monday, and T and the neighbor are tiling the floor in the studio. They're grouting today, so furniture can go in tomorrow, but it's been mayhem.
The reason I'm not tired at night is because I'm not being terribly physically active due to the continued lingering cough of doom. I'm still trying to avoid antibiotics. So I'm doing as much desk work and light housework as I can, but there's so much, and it often feels like a Sisyphean struggle with all the moving and construction mess.
And I've been thinking about Baby A. I did a marker mock-up of a mosaic stone for her. It's beautiful. I've picked out some Smalti mosaic glass, rose quartz, millefiori. I want to hunt down a small Ganga amulet, perhaps on eBay. I'm still looking for a bit of gold tile. And cobalt with gold sheen, versus mother of pearl. I just need a little.
I looked at her sonogram yesterday. Her delicate little arms and jaw. She was gone. But she was still beautiful.
All of that I could take, though I was a little melancholy.
We tried to take B to wrestling, all of us went, but being homeschoolers we forgot about spring break. On the way home we stopped at an auto place to get some decent wipers for the van. My eyes were burning from pollen. We parked next to a jeep with kayaks on the roof, which was funny because we'd been talking about a roof rack for the VW, and how to transport the kayak since Mom's truck will no longer be an option.
T was inside. It was raining. The kids were fussing. My eyes were itchy.
Someone knocked in the window.
It was M, an old friend of T's. I opened the door to his enthusiastic greetings. Life's never been better, he said. The kayaks were his. Phone numbers, photos, work, engaged, expecting.
That's great! When is she due?
June 19th.
That's so awesome!
The chemistry in the car changed. Of course our story could not be told. What purpose? He's so excited. A little girl.
Let's get together, great, great, our place, fire pit, wine (he's a restaurant buyer).
We came home, toodled around. Foraged for after-dinner snacks because we ate so early. Watched some really funny Mr. Bean clips on YouTube. Laughed together. T read to the kids while I put D to bed. I'm done reading The Alienist, which was deeply disturbing, but also really good. So I read Song of Myself aloud to D.
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Goodnight kids. Kiss, kiss. I love you. D is asleep at last.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.
Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
I know I have to get things done. I have to get back up.
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.
I can hear T putting things away in the kitchen.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
D is snoring slightly. There is a large moth by the light.
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.
Taken from my lap. How far along would I be now. She would have bones. She would be kicking me. Maybe even have hiccups.
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
Is it really? Different, sure. Luckier? I'm not sure. Did that little portion of life mean anything? Does it count that I held her, even if not in my hands?
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I
know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and
am not contain'd between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Well, yes. I know. Of course. So she is somewhere, uncontained. And her sweetness can be felt by me with thought. Still, I ache. I still ache and want her. Kissing the necks of my children just makes me miss her more, because I will never kiss her neck, and it would have been so sweet.
I got up and helped T in the kitchen. When I sat at the computer he made a good case for coming to bed. We talked a bit, and then K came in, afraid of the big moth at her light.
"It's flappy," she insisted, cringing.
I told T there was no point in having a digeridoo for sleep apnea (that wakes me up) if he doesn't use it. I tried to alarm him with the prospect of future surgery. Do they insert a digeridoo? He fell asleep quickly.
I stared at K's ceiling covered in glowing stars. I still feel like we're just using her room temporarily. I guess it's true. The night time sky, with it's weird light, came through the trees and through the windows.
If I cry too loudly, she will hear.
D stretches next to me. And I long for A to stretch in me, and to come out and be. And to stretch next to me in the night.
July 2. She'll always have a fireworks memorial.
If I choke and blow my nose is it too loud? What if I want to wail and moan?
Do I want want to talk about it? No. Yes. There is not time. Begin, and then be interrupted. Sometimes pleasantly. Sometimes annoyingly.
This is a frustrating time.
Somehow I need to plan and make meals in a timely fashion, clean the smelly cat box and main bathroom, clear and organize my monstrous desk mess, tidy the kitchen a bit, clear and organize all of the moving-related clutter on the dining table and all of my mother's donations in the living room, find bookshelf space for homeschooling (even though I've broken down and double layered most of the shelves already), get the kids to their classes and even add some, become familiar with buying and selling real estate for multiple reasons, do the filing and bill paying T needs help with, continue to write for my sanity, create a B&B space and jump through all the bureaucratic hoops, stay up on politics, learn the ropes with Melaleuca, change diapers, stop catastrophes, wipe noses, keep up with shopping, etc, etc, etc.
And what if I want to try to have another baby? What if now is too chaotic a time? What if that doesn't change before I'm too old? What if I don't stop wanting to cry? My God, what if I lose another one? What if we have another, and think of that one as our fifth child, but he or she is always referred to as fourth? Where will A go then? Why does she have to be lost in more ways than one? Why can't she at least exist on paper, and in our hearts? What if we all died in a plane crash and the world never knew about her? That she had a name. That she was real. That she was part of our family and we loved her. What then?
But now I know why I work until my eyelids won't stay open, and keep a night time book going no matter what (there can be no time between books, at all). If I don't, I'll just spend the time crying. And then it's hard to stop. And in it I feel very alone.
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