We are actually not a fan of Tummy Time (not to be confused with Tatey Time, which rates quite highly in Remy’s book.) Most of the time we look around for a couple of minutes, then peck at the ground a few times like a baby bird before faceplanting in the blanket, which of course worries our Mommy to no end.
We’ve found another tactic to avoiding Tummy Time, though. We just plop onto our side.
This is our “idea face”.
Once we’re there, though, we’re not entirely sure what our next move should be.
“Now what do I do??”
No further words needed.
It’s evening now, and I’m sitting near the kitchen with all the lights off; all the better to see the sky outside going grey. The leaves on the trees in the backyard are nearly fully out, which means soon our neighbors’ windows will be blotted out, and between the owls and the squirrels and the occasional opossum, it’s easy to glance out the back and imagine we live alone, in a forest somewhere. Then the neighbors drive up, with their gangster music blaring, and the illusion is shattered. Oh well!
Remy will be two months old tomorrow. I am beyond enjoying my role as a stay-at-home-wife-and-mother, though I have found I have to stay busy in order to not feel like I’m taking advantage of the position. Somehow, in the bustle and routine of the schedule, I have found my creative streak again. Or maybe it was taking up word puzzles again that did it–or, perhaps, my promising myself that I wouldn’t get on the computer when Ephraim is awake, which gives me plenty of time to think aloud to a most willing (and adorable) audience.
I’ve got a goal for myself: to get my Etsy site back up and running by the end of the month. I think I can do it…I think I can…
I just realized I’ve been parked on the sofa for the past two hours. Remy is sleeping soundly in the swing next to me, and I’m trying to decide what task I’m going to dedicate the day to. Then I see the clock; it’s almost noon. Seven hours of my day are practically gone. Is it too late to make a to-do list?
I’ve checked facebook and designsponge and my e-mail countless times. I’ve looked at houses under $50,000 in Franklin and Russellville and Auburn, Ky. I’ve compared the headlines on the Fox News website to those on CNN’s. (You know I’m really stalling when I do that.) I’ve looked up silent reflux in infants, and photos of the tsunami and earthquake in Japan. I read webcomics on Deviantart. I hate the Internet. I love the Internet.
I was nursing my son this morning when I was struck with serious Xanga nostalgia.
Eight years ago, next month, I started this site. Two years ago I abandoned it. I think I’d like to come back.
There’s nothing like Xanga, or there was…Xanga isn’t what it used to be.
Everyone I know has stopped writing here. Facebook took over the important updates. Xanga was for writing.
I’ve forgotten how to write.
I gave birth to our son eleven days ago. (I did have to count on my fingers to come up with the number.) His name is Ephraim, his nickname is Remy.
I don’t really call him by either.
It struck me this morning (shortly after the Xanga nostalgia waxed and waned) that we refer to Ephraim by any and all sort of pseudonyms except for the one on his birth certificate.
Froggy. (Which then leads to many rounds of “Froggy Went A-Courtin'”)
Little Man. (I use this one a lot.)
Toots. (Won’t he love that when he gets older?)
I guess now is the time to exhaust our capacity for embarrassing nicknames, before he really understands them or can protest their use.
I’m wondering, though, how long it will take for his real name to stick?
So many things, I think, I could do or could be, if only I didn’t know that I was 75% likely to fail.
My cousin, two years my junior, has been talking about wanting to go to college in Scotland for something like two years now. But, as we talk right now, and I ask her about it, her answer is, simply, ‘it will never happen’.
It will never happen.
She’s probably right, in fact, she is right, in a way. And that makes me a little sad. Well, in fact, it makes me very sad. I’ve never heard her regard any of her dreams so…realistically. It bothers me, in a way…because really, and truly, it could happen, it would just take a lot of work. How many things could we do if we really worked at it? I would be so much better at oboe, for one thing. There’s just so many things that could happen, but the don’t because we say “it will never happen” and then forget about it. And do you know what? That’s really sad.
I think I just need to come to grips with how incredibly shallow I am. I mean, really. All this time spent convincing myself that I’m above such asinine, juvenile longings only to have it shoved in my face that I’m not. And I despise it; I hate it with everything I have in me.
I just got home from going swing dancing with Chrystal, a different Danielle, and Wendy a come guys I didn’t know. It was alot of fun…learned new things, found out how much I like to dance. It should figure, the things I find the most pleasure in are so meaningless. Music, Language, Art, Writing, Dance. They’re as unsubstantial as a handful of snow. My trying to master them is like trying to catch a handful of moonlight. You can see it, but it’s not something that can be grasped. Why can’t I just be mathematically and scientificly minded, and be a teacher or nurse or something?
Sorry, I’m more than a little upset and peeved with myself, which makes me say things I don’t mean and shouldn’t voice. I’ll try to get over it soon.
I’m trying to write something meaningful about my trip up the mountain today. It was so beautiful, looking down on the valley, the other mountains and hills, the Ocoee river. Going up, everything was green…coming back down the mountain at twilight, everything was blue. I find it interesting. Trying to put it down on paper…
I really, truly feel like beating my head against a wall right at this moment.
Well, I just finished the walk for Cistic Fibrosis. It was great…almost two hours long. My legs are burning, but it’s all good. I’m not entirely sure what C. F. is, but I know a girl at home that has the disease. When she was eight years old, they gave her two years to live. That was a year ago. She’s so precious.
I had the strangest dreams last night.
Maybe it’s part of my sadistic nature–listening to music being sung in some unknown language I will never understand, all the while wishing I knew what was being said.
One of the girls on my hall last night told me my room was “peaceful”. I really like that. I’m looking at it right now, my room, my “house”, my little corner of the world. My name means “peace”, did you know that? I love to bask in the sunlight of belonging, that feeling that oneself and one’s belongings match. For example–it’s like when you’re driving through, well, anywhere; and you’re listening to the radio, and all of the sudden a song comes on that fits your surroundings so perfectly, you feel as if you’re in a movie and for the first time you can actually hear the soundtrack playing in the background.
Except…things are not quite perfect in peace-land–can one be sadistically peaceful? Or peacefully sadistic? I’m not sure. I’m not worried about it, though.
Putumayo puts together the best compilations.
Tonight is open mic night at Thirsty Thursday’s–for music or poetry, or what have you. There’s karaoke too, which should be highly amusing to watch. I’ve only done karaoke once, and I’ll never do it again.
If I were brave enough I’d read something of mine, or Bryce’s, but I don’t think I am. I don’t really have a “poetry-reading” voice. Instead of sounding profound I just sound like I’m trying too hard. Maybe, I could bring things and make some random person read them.