Life is hard for everybody.
I feel fortunate to suffer the things I suffer. The woe of a sunlit city street, a nice neighborhood, two pink cheeked little girls sleeping in matching pajama sets down the hall.
I am in here, somewhere.
I am arguing with an urge to make things, little creatures. I want to sew little monsters with crooked stitches. I want them to surround me, a private studio of whimsy and madness. I want to be a tick-tock professor and wear a manacle, rigging things up to clockwork. Dolls with chipped faces and taxidermy that waves a tiny, furry hand in welcome.
I think it's safe to say that I am ready for something different.
Making breakfast takes time, so does getting everybody dressed. We're always late and I'm always trying to shake myself out of a space where I'm buttering bread with unfocused eyes, where I'm plating pancakes while staring through the wall. I'm not present, because I'm not the thing I want to be. Having kids is an excuse for not writing, not creating, not being a fucking weirdo with a house full of hand-stitched things.
The thing is, we could use our time a lot better. Instead of putting the girls in front of the tv while I scramble to clean, cook and clean and cook, eventually making our way to the library or the park where I sit on a bench and stare through the world, imagining and occasionally checking my phone... we could just live more imaginatively.
We could go on adventures, which would require that I not succumb to the feeling that adventures are a lot of work and trouble.
We could paint our faces and build a teepee in the yard.
We could throw a wild party for monsters and grow fur and horns.
I find myself squeezing my passion into tiny boxes. I'll feel sexual once or twice a year when I dress up for a wedding or our anniversary date. I'll feel creative for an hour in the morning, as long as the girls don't wake up and interrupt me. I'll love something alone, in the evenings, as long as I've managed to fit a workout in while Scout was at school and Louise was napping. It's not real suffering, but it's long. It makes every day long, when I don't love something until it falls apart.
Creative breakfast settings. Trying new things, exploring new places. Making something alive, with my hands. Enjoying my body. Feeling something explosive. Allowing frustration and fury, not pressing them down, not holding them in with a rattling lid. Turning them into something bizarre and inspired. I need to try some new things. I'm turning off the tv, this week. I'm ignoring our self-imposed schedule. We're not going to the park. A trip to the grocery store will not be our activity for the day. I've got two little partners in adventure, and we need to shake things up.
|they were only supposed to get their TOES wet, and ended up with impromptu pants made out of mommy and daddy's sweatshirts.|