Here are some other odds and ends:
- I’m writing through nap times again. It feels great, although it would feel slightly more awesome of I could get Iris to nap for longer than 30 minutes at a stretch. I wouldn’t mind if she woke up happy, but she’s been waking up tired. Boo.
- Iris climbs stairs. She made it up for the first time today (Carl close behind her), and then was so proud of herself she did it three more times throughout the day. We have a baby gate at the top of the stairs, but it looks like we’re going to have to figure something out for the bottom too.
- The homey life of a Stay-At-Home apparently gives me plenty of time to think about how to make life more complicated for myself. I have not only picked out Iris’s outfits for our vacation, but placed each one in a plastic baggie with the date labeled clearly on the outside. After, of course, checking the weather forecast for each specific day.
- I can get projects like that done, but the dishes? Forget it.
- I am incapable of finishing a book. I’ve tried to read five different books now, and no luck. I can’t decide if I honestly only like to read books that are at least 50 years old or if I am developing an allergy to highbrow Art. It seems to be full of people contemplating their deaths and being miserable. I realize this lowers my lit cred significantly, but it’s my current complaint… although the more I think about it the more likely it seems that I really just prefer old books. Maybe I should try that George Eliot novel that’s been taunting me on the shelf for months.
- I’m puzzled lately by the drive to believe (of which we have daily proof on social media) that “everybody else” is either incredibly stupid or eager to do evil at every turn. It seems like the mystery novel version of life—as though there are really a large number of people interested in expending extraordinary amounts of energy in thwarting and destroying other people’s lives. And not, you know, a vast assortment of people who are perhaps self-interested and imperfect, but largely trying to do their best in a grayscale landscape. Am not trying to pick any fights here. But it just seems odd to me.
- I dreamed last night that I saved a pig from being slaughtered for my family’s holiday dinner. The pig had already been “de-meated” which sounds beyond gruesome, but on closer inspection it had simply been shrunk to a height of six-inches at the shoulder but was in all other ways (apart from two small nicks on the flank), perfectly fine. “I CAN’T DO THIS” I told my family, bursting into tears. “I AM TAKING THE PIG HOME.” And I did.
- Later that night, I dreamed I was in college (in the Matthews Auditorium, if you know the place) trying to decide who I should marry. Gosh, I’m glad to be four years removed from those days, I thought when I woke up. And then, because the dream wasn’t at all problematic, I lay awake for half an hour trying to decide what to do for Iris’s 1 year portraits. Because if you’re only getting 5 or 6 hours of sleep a night, it’s really important to also have some minor bouts of insomnia.
- I just heard the pacifier drop on the floor in the nursery. Somebody is awake. For some reason, that’s her first step on waking up. Reach her little hand through the crib bars and delicately drop the paci on the floor.