Category: About Me

In terms of, “It never rains but it pours,” not only did our kids come down sick with a stomach bug last week, our 16-year-old cat was diagnosed with kidney failure.

My cat is dying.

I just don’t have the drive to do much right now. I don’t feel motivated to put together and post the next part of The Scions, so that’s being put on hold for at least this week. We don’t yet know how fast this condition is progressing, and I need time to mentally process the inevitable. Time to sit with my cat and scratch him behind the ears. Time to clean up the messes that seem to be inextricably linked with terminal diagnoses.

I’ll check in again in a few more days.

Last night I was vomited on four separate times.

I barely slept.

It’s a coffee kind of day.

If you need me, I’ll be knitting.

Today is my “trauma-versary.”

The skinny of it is that I spent a few years trying to move on and forget it ever happened, until I realized that I was committed to acknowledging the day despite my best efforts. So, I baked a cake to celebrate instead.

This year I feel like having a jelly roll cake, with our homemade peach jam.

Twelve years ago, my fundamental assumptions about humanity were shattered. Innocence lost. Horrors revealed. I was torn apart, never to be the same again.

And I was reborn.

Cheers.

My baby has cut his first tooth. I can’t believe he’s gotten that big already … time is flying by waaaay to fast.

I’m putting more effort into writing fiction regularly, but since I’m still fairly sleep deprived, I’m having a hard time keeping the facts straight in my head. I worry about creating plot holes, inconsistencies, and redundancies, but I probably ought to let all that go and keep plowing ahead anyway. After all, there are plenty of other authors who obviously don’t care about such concerns, and it ain’t hurtin’ them none. Ha ha.

Crappy writing is better than no writing.

I decided that I wanted to knit matching sweaters for my sons … and apparently, procuring wool for the project is impossible.

Not in terms of, “Oh my god the world is ending and there isn’t any fiber to be found!” But more like I keep getting sent the wrong thing, out of stock, didn’t actually ship, blah blah blah. Which maybe translates into the world is ending. IDK. I just wanted to knit matching sweaters for my babies. Le sigh.

I’m starting to wonder if there’s going to be enough time to finish them before Christmas.

It’s one of those periods.

Probably should have smudged ages ago. Meh, I’m tired.

I like to think about how babies are the same cuddly, bouncy, black-holes-of-need (lawl) today that they were 1,000+ years ago.

I didn’t grow up feeling like I belonged with the family I was born into. I used to imagine that I was secretly adopted, switched at birth, fairy changeling — anything that could explain the void I felt surrounding me, really. Combined with a general sense of alienation from society, I’m kind of a neurotic mess.

But, a long, long time ago, my ancestors kissed their babies’ cheeks the same way I do. They tickled their babies’ tummies, changed their babies’ diapers, and snuggled their babies against their breasts, the same way I do.

I bet they even occasionally got up with headaches after spending the night consoling a fussy baby, just like I do.

And the thought makes me feel like I’m not such an outcast weirdo.

I think that birthing person fiction ought to be an actual genre. Something that others who feel similar to me can relate to.