Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Good Stuff, Maynard.

I often find myself thinking of this little space and what exactly to do with it. What message am I trying to portray here? Sometimes my head aches trying to think up grand ideas, new recipes, interesting new topics. Most days, I fall short and say forget it.

Winter is hard on me.

There are bedtime baths that lead to the massaging of wrinkled baby feet. Dinner conversations go on with Kade center stage, new ideas spitting from his mouth like little flurries of snow. Hair sprouts on Ezra's head, strawberry blonde tufts. Books are repeated, memorized. Train tracks are built, torn down, built again. Jenga games go on through nap time, in the kitchen so the crash! of wood won't disturb the finally sleeping baby. Promotions are being earned. Friends are warm and funny. Surprise packages, letters, cards find a cheerful home in my mailbox; a sweet reminder that I'm not the only one who has lived here and felt this.

This being that despite the good stuff, I feel sort of like a glob of tar.

Seasonal depression is no joke. It's a sticky, black tar bubbling in my brain. It's hot on my skin, it fogs my peripheral and it pulls me downwards towards the floor. My limbs feel heavy, my feet too far away, my saliva sticking my tongue to the roof of my mouth. A friend recently came over for dinner and stated that his writing voice sounded nothing like his speaking voice; it was more eloquent, more put together and wise. I nodded and rubbed at my own shoulder. Of course I understood.

On the phone with my mom, she issues the question everyone has: How are you handling the rain? I twist my hair a bit, glare around the house and reply, "I'm fine." I'm just bored. I'm stuck inside. I need to meet more people. If we had a car, we'd be good.

This isn't always. There are mornings with pancakes and coffee, afternoons of Pez dispensing and rough housing. Long walks are sacred when the sun comes out; we gulp up the air and stand directly in the sun, closing our eyes.

But there are also stiff, groggy mornings. When the babies cry is like a vibrating buzz in my brain and Kade's requests seem complicated and infuriating. The pile of dishes in the sink diminishes and rebuilds faster than I can keep up. The laundry piles high and it can all feel very suffocating.

I'm grateful for friends.
I'm learning that things don't have to be perfect to be written about. My favorite writers scarcely drone on about sunshine and lollipops. That can all seem pretty plastic.
I'm grateful for my babies.
I'm learning that they love me, no matter how forgetful and groggy.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas and have an exciting new year celebration.
Hopefully, but not promising, you will see more stories soon;
plenty of them sunny but many of them rainy.

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