Pregnant woman apparently don't have enough to be compared with, and thus, this last phase of pregnancy seems to fall underneath the avian category. Unbeknownst to myself, this latest obsession with finally purchasing curtains for the dining room, replacing our duvet cover that's had an equator-sized tear for the last 6 months and hounding my husband to fix up the basement that I am never in to begin with have all been sure signs of the "nesting" disease that hits around the third trimester. I spend more time on www.westelm.com than I do planning out our meals for the week- and most of you know how much I really love planning dinner and hate shopping. However, I feel like these desires are more than just mere pregnant emotional compulsions as I will outline defensively for the you in the following paragraphs.
We are blessed enough to live near ALL of Ellie's grandparents and aunts and uncles, so there is plenty of help to go around. Ordinarily, this would make me cringe in embarrassment at the thought that other people will now know that I can't do everything myself- but after this past week of not sleeping due to back pain and the gymnastic feats performed every 20 minutes in my uterus I am aware of how little energy and sleep I will have for the next two months. I am more than grateful the Grandparents want to help- so grateful, in fact, I want everything neatly arranged and organized so that when they have Ellie duty for an hour or so, I can take a nap or a shower without having to tell anyone once where the bottles/diapers/ear plugs are. Ahhhh. In fact, if any want to start getting into the swing of things early, I have a list...:)
My paychecks are coming to an end. Yes, I'll still get paid something or other as a reminder that America is not completely heartless when it comes to newly born children, but it won't be as much as when I was working. Which means, buy those curtains now or live through another Thanksgiving with our neighbors watching us carve the turkey.
I have four weeks off before my due date. Yes, I know. Due dates aren't sanctioned or certain. However, going with the odds of this being my first, chances are she'll wait around until the 40th week (Oh, say it isn't so) to show her pretty, little face. I've already promised her a puppy if makes a grand entrance at the 38th. Here's hoping. However, that does leave me some time to "prepare". Since sleeping is hardly an option even now, I can't truly take advantage when I'm bound to be even more uncomfortable then than I am now. Hence, "nesting" it is! Washing all of her clothes and sheets and swaddling blankets, cleaning out from underneath the kitchen sink ( I'm fairly certain something other-worldly lives down there), making lists and spreadsheets of bills and budgets so that I don't even have to think about money for at least a few weeks after her birth, adding to her collection of children's books that I'm sure she'll be reading on her own by 6 months and other things I've been putting off for, oh, I don't know, the last year or so.
Alright, after re-reading, none of these defenses hold. I am the typical, third trimester woman. I accept. I nest. Bring on the Excel sheets.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Final Countdown
No, no. I'm not jumping the gun. I am fully aware that there are several weeks left in which to carry/incubate/lug heavily this child before she makes her grand entrance into the world. However, I feel like the art of celebrating small mile stones has been lost, and it may be solely up to me in order to reclaim it. I have officially entered the 30 week bench mark, and there is no turning back. I only have a few, short weeks left of having the unique experience of another creature using my bladder as her pillow and since I haven't been terribly faithful in documenting this momentous occasion, I will do my best to explain briefly what life at 30 weeks pregnant looks and feels like for this soon to be Mama.
1. Naps are my best friend, though, I'm sure the relationship is purely one sided. I take advantage of them. Abuse them, even. And still, they are always there- albeit, at different times of the day-patiently waiting.
2. Naps are so necessary because sleeping at night has proven to be a laughable suggestion, let alone practice. My back aches when I lie on my side, but my lungs are crushed if I lie on my back. And if I do manage to get comfortable enough to close my eyes, I'm assaulted by a barrage of: " Oh my gosh I have to get curtain rods for the nursery!"and, "Will this kid ever stop moving? She stopped! Is she ok?" and, "What the hell am I going to do if I go into labor while Rich is at work? LABOR?!?!?!" AHHHHH. And the anxiety commences.
3. There are now, two men in my bed. My husband, of course, and the newest addition, Howard. Howard is the name we gave the body pillow purchased to assist in sleeping, but just manages to create a giant Berlin-wall sized obstacle down the center of the bed and provide a soft place to rest my sleepless head. I'm hoping in the near future to see Rich again at some point.
4. I waddle. Like a penguin. Or one who's been out riding all day. Or like a bow-legged old man. Or a duck. Choose a comparison. None of them are entirely encompass the fact that waddling is both uncomfortable and unattractive.
5. There are some women who display their stretch marks proudly, proclaiming them to be a visible sign of their entrance into motherhood. There are others who wail and bemoan the despicable, pink lines and invest an obscene amount of money in over-the-counter topical remedies that falsely promise radical results in 3 weeks or less. I fall somewhere in the middle, on any given day. Or hour. I'm not a fan. I don't think they represent anything other than the fact that my hips, apparently, actually did get wider. I thought that was impossible. But I'm not going to cry about how I'll never look good in a bikini again. Not today, anyway.
6. I'm so stoked to be over the 6 month long, " Will I or won't I puke today?" phase, that I almost don't mind the back pain.
7. My girl seems to have inherited the most dominant trait of both of her parents. She dances when her Daddy sings to her, and snuggles as close to the surface as possible when Mama plays the piano. She's a musician. I knew she would be. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited about that.
8. I have kindly advised my doctor to stop informing me how much weight I've gained. My blood pressure's great. I tested negatively for gestational diabetes. All other signs point to a healthy pregnancy and a healthy daughter. So, with all due respect, shut up. I am very much aware that the amount of weight I gain, I must lose after the baby's born. You needn't remind me. Even after weeks of abstaining from anything remotely white sugared or floured, I still gained. I'm over it. Thank you, have a nice day. And when all is said and done, and I have a healthy child instead of a bad back that keeps me up at night, eventually I will fit into my favorite black skirt again. Until then, talk to me about the appropriate weight window again and I can't promise to behave like a sane human being.
9. I, officially, have 5 weeks remaining of going to work. That makes me smile. And makes me nervous. All at the same time. I'm told I should get used to that.
10. Ellie's no longer a distant thought but an actual, close reality. She's not a fetus, she's a person. A person that might have my eyes, or Rich's chin- and hopefully my sister's build and my sister-in-law's nose. She's going to sleep in the room her Daddy painted green before we knew she was a girl. She'll eat breakfast at the table that's often covered with mail and toast crumbs. She's going to try to put her fingers in sockets and push the basement door open and eat inedible objects and she's going to be ours. And make us a family. The Shannon family. And she better hurry up.
1. Naps are my best friend, though, I'm sure the relationship is purely one sided. I take advantage of them. Abuse them, even. And still, they are always there- albeit, at different times of the day-patiently waiting.
2. Naps are so necessary because sleeping at night has proven to be a laughable suggestion, let alone practice. My back aches when I lie on my side, but my lungs are crushed if I lie on my back. And if I do manage to get comfortable enough to close my eyes, I'm assaulted by a barrage of: " Oh my gosh I have to get curtain rods for the nursery!"and, "Will this kid ever stop moving? She stopped! Is she ok?" and, "What the hell am I going to do if I go into labor while Rich is at work? LABOR?!?!?!" AHHHHH. And the anxiety commences.
3. There are now, two men in my bed. My husband, of course, and the newest addition, Howard. Howard is the name we gave the body pillow purchased to assist in sleeping, but just manages to create a giant Berlin-wall sized obstacle down the center of the bed and provide a soft place to rest my sleepless head. I'm hoping in the near future to see Rich again at some point.
4. I waddle. Like a penguin. Or one who's been out riding all day. Or like a bow-legged old man. Or a duck. Choose a comparison. None of them are entirely encompass the fact that waddling is both uncomfortable and unattractive.
5. There are some women who display their stretch marks proudly, proclaiming them to be a visible sign of their entrance into motherhood. There are others who wail and bemoan the despicable, pink lines and invest an obscene amount of money in over-the-counter topical remedies that falsely promise radical results in 3 weeks or less. I fall somewhere in the middle, on any given day. Or hour. I'm not a fan. I don't think they represent anything other than the fact that my hips, apparently, actually did get wider. I thought that was impossible. But I'm not going to cry about how I'll never look good in a bikini again. Not today, anyway.
6. I'm so stoked to be over the 6 month long, " Will I or won't I puke today?" phase, that I almost don't mind the back pain.
7. My girl seems to have inherited the most dominant trait of both of her parents. She dances when her Daddy sings to her, and snuggles as close to the surface as possible when Mama plays the piano. She's a musician. I knew she would be. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited about that.
8. I have kindly advised my doctor to stop informing me how much weight I've gained. My blood pressure's great. I tested negatively for gestational diabetes. All other signs point to a healthy pregnancy and a healthy daughter. So, with all due respect, shut up. I am very much aware that the amount of weight I gain, I must lose after the baby's born. You needn't remind me. Even after weeks of abstaining from anything remotely white sugared or floured, I still gained. I'm over it. Thank you, have a nice day. And when all is said and done, and I have a healthy child instead of a bad back that keeps me up at night, eventually I will fit into my favorite black skirt again. Until then, talk to me about the appropriate weight window again and I can't promise to behave like a sane human being.
9. I, officially, have 5 weeks remaining of going to work. That makes me smile. And makes me nervous. All at the same time. I'm told I should get used to that.
10. Ellie's no longer a distant thought but an actual, close reality. She's not a fetus, she's a person. A person that might have my eyes, or Rich's chin- and hopefully my sister's build and my sister-in-law's nose. She's going to sleep in the room her Daddy painted green before we knew she was a girl. She'll eat breakfast at the table that's often covered with mail and toast crumbs. She's going to try to put her fingers in sockets and push the basement door open and eat inedible objects and she's going to be ours. And make us a family. The Shannon family. And she better hurry up.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Preggo Politics
If it were any other physical ailment, impairment or struggle, people would never be so forthcoming.
"Oh, my, that rash sure looks terrible. Hope you get that herpes treated soon," or, "My, my, getting rather large, aren't we? Maybe we should cut back on those tasty cakes."
Not only would such comments be in bad taste and socially unacceptable, they're down right mean. But it doesn't stop there. Not only would we never dream of saying such pejorative statements to someone who obviously is either praying his/her condition goes undetected or is hoping that people will be kind and compassionate, but we wouldn't kick them while they were down by rubbing in how great our lives are in comparison- would we?
"Awh, man. Stomach flu? That's the worst. I don't ever get sick. Wanna finish my hot dog?", or,
"Lost your job? That sucks. I love mine. And I just got a raise!"
I'm not really sure how the human instinct of societal compassion goes out the window when it comes to pregnant women. Now, surely, there are some pregnant women who exist (see previous posts) who revel in their roundness, glow in their new skin and lustrous locks and adore all the new attention- albeit from strangers who seem to follow a strange strain of Buddhism as foretold by all their belly-touching rituals. But for some of us, this road's been hard enough to travel without being given sly winks when we reach for a second piece of pie, tales of numerous women's pregnancies that seem to be untainted by the morning sickness that has colored my last six months- "You're STILL sick? Wow, I was NEVER sick for that long!" Gee, thanks. You're so helpful. Pass that paper bag, please?- coos over how excited I must be to pick out a new stroller, the echos of, " Wait! Did this and that happen to you YET? Oh, God, just wait...."
I can't tell you how many times I've been asked if I was carrying twins. After I have politely laughed in response and delivered my well rehearsed, " My husband's 6'4, she was bound to be big!" Insert tight smile here, someone had the audacity to ask me if I was sure. Strange old ladies at Shoprite seem to think it's their grandmotherly duty to give me homemade remedies for swollen feet- I didn't even think my feet were swollen. Never in my life has the word "vaginal" gotten more mileage. How did that become common place vernacular? I do not need to be told that I look tired- I'm incubating a human life form and feeding her all of my nutrients. Of course I look tired. Sigh. Is it too much to ask to be treated with the same consideration as a non-fetus carrying person? Chances are, if a non-pregnant woman would be slightly affronted or hurt by a comment, she's not any different than a pregnant one.
People take for granted that the joy of carrying a child will override the fact that all of these strange things are happening to one's body and mind during the process. And yes, it does- most of the time. But for the times it doesn't, just do every preggo a favor- tell them they're beautiful and move on to the weather, not the three boxes of oreos in her cart.
"Oh, my, that rash sure looks terrible. Hope you get that herpes treated soon," or, "My, my, getting rather large, aren't we? Maybe we should cut back on those tasty cakes."
Not only would such comments be in bad taste and socially unacceptable, they're down right mean. But it doesn't stop there. Not only would we never dream of saying such pejorative statements to someone who obviously is either praying his/her condition goes undetected or is hoping that people will be kind and compassionate, but we wouldn't kick them while they were down by rubbing in how great our lives are in comparison- would we?
"Awh, man. Stomach flu? That's the worst. I don't ever get sick. Wanna finish my hot dog?", or,
"Lost your job? That sucks. I love mine. And I just got a raise!"
I'm not really sure how the human instinct of societal compassion goes out the window when it comes to pregnant women. Now, surely, there are some pregnant women who exist (see previous posts) who revel in their roundness, glow in their new skin and lustrous locks and adore all the new attention- albeit from strangers who seem to follow a strange strain of Buddhism as foretold by all their belly-touching rituals. But for some of us, this road's been hard enough to travel without being given sly winks when we reach for a second piece of pie, tales of numerous women's pregnancies that seem to be untainted by the morning sickness that has colored my last six months- "You're STILL sick? Wow, I was NEVER sick for that long!" Gee, thanks. You're so helpful. Pass that paper bag, please?- coos over how excited I must be to pick out a new stroller, the echos of, " Wait! Did this and that happen to you YET? Oh, God, just wait...."
I can't tell you how many times I've been asked if I was carrying twins. After I have politely laughed in response and delivered my well rehearsed, " My husband's 6'4, she was bound to be big!" Insert tight smile here, someone had the audacity to ask me if I was sure. Strange old ladies at Shoprite seem to think it's their grandmotherly duty to give me homemade remedies for swollen feet- I didn't even think my feet were swollen. Never in my life has the word "vaginal" gotten more mileage. How did that become common place vernacular? I do not need to be told that I look tired- I'm incubating a human life form and feeding her all of my nutrients. Of course I look tired. Sigh. Is it too much to ask to be treated with the same consideration as a non-fetus carrying person? Chances are, if a non-pregnant woman would be slightly affronted or hurt by a comment, she's not any different than a pregnant one.
People take for granted that the joy of carrying a child will override the fact that all of these strange things are happening to one's body and mind during the process. And yes, it does- most of the time. But for the times it doesn't, just do every preggo a favor- tell them they're beautiful and move on to the weather, not the three boxes of oreos in her cart.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Lists
I am a list maker. I've tried to avoid it, I even made it a resolution one year to eradicate all forms of lists from my life, thinking they were the source of my stressful and anxious desire to be "accomplished". Sometimes, that is still true. Though, I was reading through some of my old journal entries and quickly discovered that not all lists are bad. Like the one that listed all the best pubs in Temple Bar, Dublin. Or the one that began with, "Vegetables I would like to buy more of". I still have yet to purchase an endive or celery root, but I still, months later, think it sounds like a good idea. There are others like, "Things I will do before I turn 30," and "Top Ten Jobs that would be cooler than mine", but there is one list that struck me as perhaps one of the most important lists I may ever write. Though I'm quite positive it's not done, and may never be, that's the one I'll share with you today.
Things I Want my Daughter to both Know and Experience
I want my daughter to grow up in a home where God's presence is an active reality that makes up the center, loving core of her life ; not a distant, peripheral idea
I want her to be totally and completely appalled at how much her gross, old parents still love each other and kiss in the kitchen
I want her to be sensitive and aware of herself as a social, communal being; one who needs others and who is needed by others, as part of God's design. I truly want her to love people- all kinds.
I want her to be fearless in her pursuits, knowing in whom her confidence and assurance comes from. I would rather be up all night worrying about whether she'll get Malaria in Uganda than watch her suffer silently at home, too afraid to take chances.
I want her to live in a constant state of "awakeness", knowing that every decision she makes matters from where she purchases her food to who she defends on the lunch line or in court and that she could have a great influence on other's decisions as well.
I want her to see her flaws as beauty because they make her who she is; but know and understand fully that she is not perfect nor is she expected to be, and will make mistakes and even fail. Often.
I want her to be conscious of the earth we were given and how we are to care for it. I want her to appreciate it's beauty and be awed by creation; know that the land was given as a gift to build on, to cultivate and appreciate.
I want her to enjoy her life and live it abundantly- and love whatever she does with all she has and never hold back.
I want her to remember that her parents were young and dumb when they had her and did the best they could. I want her to sift through all of the ways she will believe we have been unfair or unforgiving and know that it was all, truly and indefinitely because we love her.
Things I Want my Daughter to both Know and Experience
I want my daughter to grow up in a home where God's presence is an active reality that makes up the center, loving core of her life ; not a distant, peripheral idea
I want her to be totally and completely appalled at how much her gross, old parents still love each other and kiss in the kitchen
I want her to be sensitive and aware of herself as a social, communal being; one who needs others and who is needed by others, as part of God's design. I truly want her to love people- all kinds.
I want her to be fearless in her pursuits, knowing in whom her confidence and assurance comes from. I would rather be up all night worrying about whether she'll get Malaria in Uganda than watch her suffer silently at home, too afraid to take chances.
I want her to live in a constant state of "awakeness", knowing that every decision she makes matters from where she purchases her food to who she defends on the lunch line or in court and that she could have a great influence on other's decisions as well.
I want her to see her flaws as beauty because they make her who she is; but know and understand fully that she is not perfect nor is she expected to be, and will make mistakes and even fail. Often.
I want her to be conscious of the earth we were given and how we are to care for it. I want her to appreciate it's beauty and be awed by creation; know that the land was given as a gift to build on, to cultivate and appreciate.
I want her to enjoy her life and live it abundantly- and love whatever she does with all she has and never hold back.
I want her to remember that her parents were young and dumb when they had her and did the best they could. I want her to sift through all of the ways she will believe we have been unfair or unforgiving and know that it was all, truly and indefinitely because we love her.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Dick
What? Has someone hijacked my blog that is usually about useless musings, chronic complaints and family stories uninteresting to anyone other than myself( and maybe my mother, if she even reads it)? What is this profanity strewn carelessly in modern text across the title? The answer is much simpler and innocent than it appears. In one word, it's my grandfather. Or, that's what people called him. Behind his back. No, just kidding. Maybe.
To clarify: my Pop-pop's name was Richard, and was called Dick for short- though I'm sure due to his knack for sarcasm and down-right rudeness on occasion, he may have earned his knick-name for entirely different reasons. No matter how many character flaws he may have had ( and we all have them), as this is the first Christmas we'll be spending without his belly laugh, dirty jokes or the wiggle of his eyebrows I thought it only appropriate to remember him with words.
This Christmas I will miss his fart jokes, remember his love of peanut cookies, and how he'd razz my grandmother about inviting his girlfriend from the "home" to Christmas dinner. I'll remember how he gave me my first beer- a Heineken around the campfire in New Hampshire when I was nine, how his shirt pockets always had root beer barrels and smelled faintly of the cigars he only smoked when my Nana wasn't around and how he taught me to run my hand down and not up the spine of a sunfish so that I didn't get stuck with the prickly fins when taking it off the hook.
We'll talk and laugh about how he fell in the lake and scared the fourteen year old dock boy enough to try and jump in save him- he, being 5'3 and 95 lbs soaking wet, my Pop-pop well over 6'1 and pushing a cool 300 lbs without the water. Someone will tell stories of he and my Uncle Gir's escapades that we were never supposed to hear. My sister and I will recall the sleep-overs when Pop-pop (who worked nights at A&P) would trample through the side door at 7 a.m. and eat two whole bowls of Honeycombs with a banana as a snack while Nana sizzled three eggs in bacon fat on the stovetop for his real breakfast before he went to bed. How he was the only man I ever met who kept the fridge in the basement well stocked with RC cola.
It was Pop-pop who taught me how to order a steak in fancy restaurant ( should be medium-rare, but I couldn't handle it until after he had passed. He'd be proud of me now), how to gut a fish for dinner and how to mix a proper Bloody Mary. It wasn't until after I was old enough to drink that I learned that only he could possibly drink his version of a "proper" Bloody Mary. I learned how to crack open a lobster by his looming, crackling fingers and once spent 12 hours in the car with him on what should have been a 6 hour drive. Life with Pop-pop was very experiential. He wasn't a "thing" guy, he was a "do" guy. If nothing else, I'd like to remember him for that.
This Christmas I will miss his fart jokes, remember his love of peanut cookies, and how he'd razz my grandmother about inviting his girlfriend from the "home" to Christmas dinner. I'll remember how he gave me my first beer- a Heineken around the campfire in New Hampshire when I was nine, how his shirt pockets always had root beer barrels and smelled faintly of the cigars he only smoked when my Nana wasn't around and how he taught me to run my hand down and not up the spine of a sunfish so that I didn't get stuck with the prickly fins when taking it off the hook.
We'll talk and laugh about how he fell in the lake and scared the fourteen year old dock boy enough to try and jump in save him- he, being 5'3 and 95 lbs soaking wet, my Pop-pop well over 6'1 and pushing a cool 300 lbs without the water. Someone will tell stories of he and my Uncle Gir's escapades that we were never supposed to hear. My sister and I will recall the sleep-overs when Pop-pop (who worked nights at A&P) would trample through the side door at 7 a.m. and eat two whole bowls of Honeycombs with a banana as a snack while Nana sizzled three eggs in bacon fat on the stovetop for his real breakfast before he went to bed. How he was the only man I ever met who kept the fridge in the basement well stocked with RC cola.
It was Pop-pop who taught me how to order a steak in fancy restaurant ( should be medium-rare, but I couldn't handle it until after he had passed. He'd be proud of me now), how to gut a fish for dinner and how to mix a proper Bloody Mary. It wasn't until after I was old enough to drink that I learned that only he could possibly drink his version of a "proper" Bloody Mary. I learned how to crack open a lobster by his looming, crackling fingers and once spent 12 hours in the car with him on what should have been a 6 hour drive. Life with Pop-pop was very experiential. He wasn't a "thing" guy, he was a "do" guy. If nothing else, I'd like to remember him for that.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Donny
It's Friday. Which means I treat myself to our local cafe's egg sandwich on the way to work. I ran in quickly ( I never put money in the meter) and my favorite waitress already had my tea ready as I waited at the counter. And then, a familiar brown tweed at the counter began to speak.
"Are you a christian? I think you are. I knew you were when I met you last. I knew you were a sister."
Remember a few posts ago when I outlined how my getting to work on time was deterred by a talkative alcoholic in need of a best friend? Looks like he found one. It appears as if I'll be meeting the elderly gentleman on Friday mornings for breakfast (me an egg and cheese sandwich and a black tea with milk, his preference whole wheat, buttered toast and a green tea) in which he will explain his undying affection for the Red Cross woman with the blue hair and I will get to marvel at how quickly he can speak and eat at the same time.
We may over look people and things God puts in our way the first time, but never- never the second. There's no way around it. Donny and I are fated to be life-long friends. And, I will never be on time for work ever again. Especially if he doesn't get up the guts to ask blue-haired lady out this week. Geesh.
"Are you a christian? I think you are. I knew you were when I met you last. I knew you were a sister."
Remember a few posts ago when I outlined how my getting to work on time was deterred by a talkative alcoholic in need of a best friend? Looks like he found one. It appears as if I'll be meeting the elderly gentleman on Friday mornings for breakfast (me an egg and cheese sandwich and a black tea with milk, his preference whole wheat, buttered toast and a green tea) in which he will explain his undying affection for the Red Cross woman with the blue hair and I will get to marvel at how quickly he can speak and eat at the same time.
We may over look people and things God puts in our way the first time, but never- never the second. There's no way around it. Donny and I are fated to be life-long friends. And, I will never be on time for work ever again. Especially if he doesn't get up the guts to ask blue-haired lady out this week. Geesh.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Wanted: My Creativity
I've lost it. It has officially been consumed by demanding A.P. students needing college recommendations. Squashed by the pile of dishes in the sink that have begun to waft unnatural odors through my living room doors. Stifled by this growing child within me that seems to need every ounce of nutrition, energy, patience and sleep I come across on a daily basis.
I have no creativity.
I have not written anything that could even resemble a song, a poem, a chapter in one of the two novels that been in progress for two years now- even a haiku. Nada.
I have alternated chicken and pasta for weeknight meals. No Indian Biryani that once graced our table. No homemade bread or almond torte or even hot chocolate from scratch. Thank you, Swiss Miss.
I have not rearranged furniture. Redecorated my bedroom. Thought about patterns for the nursery.
In fact, it took me a disconcerting 20 minutes to write this minuscule, scattered post which is just another dismal reflection of my lack of creative juices.
Someone help me find it.
I have no creativity.
I have not written anything that could even resemble a song, a poem, a chapter in one of the two novels that been in progress for two years now- even a haiku. Nada.
I have alternated chicken and pasta for weeknight meals. No Indian Biryani that once graced our table. No homemade bread or almond torte or even hot chocolate from scratch. Thank you, Swiss Miss.
I have not rearranged furniture. Redecorated my bedroom. Thought about patterns for the nursery.
In fact, it took me a disconcerting 20 minutes to write this minuscule, scattered post which is just another dismal reflection of my lack of creative juices.
Someone help me find it.
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