Heaven help me, the toddler has learned how to use doorknobs. Today she put on her shoes and tried to head out the front door to play, all on her own. Need to keep a close eye on that one.
The baby is two months old already. Time is flying by, yet I barely remember living without him. I love his smile.
Summer is in full swing. The freezer is stocked with popsicles and ice cream to help beat the heat, and the splash pad has been dug out from the garage. The children are running rampant. Surprisingly, the first sunburn of the season wasn’t mine (for once).
For some strange reason, WordPress thinks that I registered on June 5th, 2011. The first post I made with this account is actually dated November 14th, 2010, so I haven’t the slightest clue where this “anniversary” came from.
In June 2011, my husband and I were living in San Diego. We had been together for about a year and a half, shit had officially hit the fan, and all of my prior friends and family were eagerly letting me know how much of an epic failure I was … Just in case you were wondering where my cynicism came from.
I have nothing good to say about 2011.
We were so far down on the nobody list, random strangers confessed their deepest, darkest secrets to us — I’m pretty certain they told us things that they wouldn’t even tell their therapists. This became a huge influence on the direction I ended up going with my life, and shaped many of my inner philosophies.
Southern California was hideously expensive, so we left at the end of July. We haven’t visited since, or even considered the possibility of vacationing there. I’m sorry, but the price of milk was absurd back then, and it’s only gotten worse.
My lips are finally getting some color back, and I’m managing to make it through the day without a nap. Yesterday I had enough energy to put Baby Boy in the sling and bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies.
That’s the secret to getting anything done with a newborn, you know: Baby wearing. I like the carriers made out of soft, stretchy fabrics. The other secret is nursing pillows, for sit-down projects like knitting or writing.
I’m craving a slow cooked pot roast with plenty of potatoes and carrots, so we’ll aim for that next.
But no onion.
Onion always results in a fussy baby with a gassy tummy afterwards.
I finished off the liquid iron that I was on, and have since taken a small step backwards in my recovery — I lost enough blood during my last labor to leave me anemic. I’m mostly feeling a little more tired, and a little more out of it mentally.
I’m torn on continuing another round of liquid iron, but I hate the taste. I’ve decided to see how the chelated pills treat me, and I have no plans on physically exerting myself any time soon.
I also need to do a bit better on keeping up with my hydration, but the kids keep drinking all of my electrolyte stuff every time I mix up a pitcher, lol. Maybe I should get a bigger pitcher.
Baby boy likes having his hair stroked.
I spent some time poking around my crafting room yesterday, and I have Way. Too. Much. Yarn. Need to do something about that.
It’s a shame that I’m not a poet, because otherwise I’d be endlessly writing about the beauty of babies and motherhood.
My tiny person, snuggled against my chest, as soft as an angel.
Even though this is my sixth baby, I’m still thoroughly amazed that something so beautiful came from me. This is what gives my life meaning.
One of the reasons why I withdrew from socializing was because I know that other people don’t experience the newborn phase in the same way that I do. My reality is full of sacred moments spent loving and caring for another human being, understanding the helplessness of babies and guiding them through the beginning of their lives. I can’t imagine anything being more important.
It felt too much like taking all of the worst traits of these characters and amplifying them into a sordid and depressing story. I very much didn’t want to do that.
But the idea has been niggling at me for months. It won’t leave me alone.
I’ve caved. Fine. I’m writing it.
But this is a very sordid and depressing story.
Master sergeant Hartmann wasn’t certain when he had first begun to notice the cleaning lady. Two years prior, more for the sake of politics than anything else, the General had declared that they were going to improve national security by limiting the soldiers’ access to the Suit, and a civilian was picked out of the Base’s janitorial staff to be the designated caretaker of the military’s top asset. It turned out to be a plain, mousy woman, who quietly devoted herself to the job then faded into the background as another functioning cog, and business moved on as usual.
Hartmann was by far the best at piloting the Suit. Although it was obviously alien technology, he had an intuitive understanding of how to operate it, and was consequently given all of the important missions. He had already been considered something of a hero due to his ‘bravery’ and ‘leadership’ beforehand, but the Suit had skyrocketed him to the status of a superstar. He was worshiped by those below his rank, and greatly respected by those above. It was unspoken, but everyone pinned their hopes of winning the war on his abilities, and he was more than willing to accept the mantle.
Yet, somehow, the moments he had spent basking in the adulation of a job well done melted away as the cleaning lady took up more and more of his awareness.
There were moments when it was comical to watch her, a slim 5’4” woman standing on a stepladder with a soapy sponge, contrasted against the 12-foot mecha that she rigorously scrubbed. However, when she worked on detailing the interior, it stung to realize that she was more intimately familiar with the Suit than he was. He felt like the interloper, good for a wild ride before the Suit returned home to its loving family. He never had the liberty to simply touch and examine the Suit, no matter how much time he spent inside.
To make it worse, the cleaning lady was completely unaware of him. Hartmann was attractive and muscular, with sandy blonde hair and sharp eyes, and took it for granted that women would preen and flirt as they competed for his attention. The cleaning lady, however, never smiled or brushed her hair behind her ear; her eyes slid over him as if he was any other uniform in a sea of soldiers. He had even bumped into her deliberately to see her reaction, but she had tersely apologized then skirted around him, never quite managing to raise her eyes to his face during the entire exchange. The other soldiers had snickered, and someone had said, “I guess you aren’t her type,” as Hartmann stared after her, his face hard.
That was two strikes against her.
In between missions, he kept an apartment off Base, and he liked to amuse himself by taking out a few of his buddies to pick up women at bars and clubs. The thrill of simply bedding them had vanished years ago, but he still got his kicks out of playing with them. He had developed a good eye for finding the ones that were attractive enough to be worthwhile, but still had the shadow of desperation that spoke of a willingness to do anything. That night, he imagined that he had the cleaning lady in his clutches, and pushed the woman to a level of filthy that he had never gone to before. Unsatisfied with how easy it had been to control and degrade her, he sent her away from his apartment with one of his friends, and from the way she giggled he knew that she was up for another round of debauchery.
Alone, he knew the folly of his fantasy. The cleaning lady was the sort who spent her evenings curled up with a book and a glass of wine – she would never be under his power.
So he watched her. He watched her clean his Suit, watched her love what should have been his, all the while knowing that she was untouchable. The cleaning lady was ranked above him, the master sergeant.
It’s funny, really, that the quiet purity of a newborn sleeping against my chest is the reason why I’m drifting farther and farther into becoming a fetish author.
Labor didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped it would, but after some tears, determination, and the skilled assistance of my midwife, it ended well with a story to tell. I’m thoroughly enjoying my “baby-cation”, and everyone in our family is madly smitten with our tiny little man.
Basking in the warmth of a new life is the perfect way to celebrate May Day. 🙂
By Autumn Rain 