I'm afraid that Donald Trump might become president.
I rarely/never get political on this blog, but I just thought I'd share that the thought of him in the Oval Office freaks me out.
Anyway. On to non-political items.
***
My boyfriend asked me if I'd be willing to go to Death Valley with him this weekend to spend a day among the wildflowers.
I said yes, of course, because I am one for romance and what is more romantic than being among the wildflowers (cue Tom Petty) with the one you love?
***
There was a chick at karaoke last night who was singing Whitney and she was gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood.
"It's not fair," Alex said.
I was only a tinge jealous but mostly just watching her in her pink dress, thinking, "She better be pursuing this as a career." Because if she's not I'll need to have words with her.
Her name is Lauren. Remember that when she's famous. You read it here first, folks! Breaking news on the Daily Bailey!
***
I hope I don't sound like a drunk, but I am loving the community at our local bar.
We go there to shoot pool and sing karaoke, and this is the first and only time in my life in which I have walked into an establishment and feel like I have a roomful of friends and soon-to-be friends surrounding me.
I have found my Cheers. In Los Angeles, where no one is supposed to know your name, unless you're Brad Pitt, in which case everyone -- but no one, really -- knows you.
When I leave for the night, Jason, the karaoke DJ (apparently the official title for such a position is "KJ") gives me a hug. I work with his mom.
I met Tony and Joey last night, after they put their quarters on the pool table and suggested we play doubles. In no time at all, they were giving me pointers for my shots, teaching me physics tricks, and we all whooped together as I sank tricky shots under their tutelage.
I know James hardly at all, but he's got a great voice and a friendly face and I just know if I were to camp out at karaoke by myself some night, we could chat easily throughout the evening.
I chopped my hair off last night, and these bar friends of mine -- several of whom I've known for less than a month -- had all sorts of excitement and compliments to share with me.
Even though some of the boys wanted my digits, they have since ushered Alex into their nest, cheering him on as he finishes rocking out yet another Weird Al song at the mic.
I love -- and I do not say this in jest -- this community.
Community in LA. Eureka. And it took me less than four years in town to find it.
***
We stuffed, sealed, labeled, and stamped about 1300 envelopes at the office today. I enjoyed the mindless, manual labor on a Friday morning, chatting and laughing with my gal pal coworkers.
"I'm gonna pee," Carrie said through her laughter, as our conversational reverie escalated to the point of extreme giggles.
I get antsy on Fridays, generally happy to be at work but raring to get to 5:00, so I love when I can be helpful and productive but not feel like I'm going to tear my hair out with some other project I've been working on since Monday and can't stand to look at anymore.
It's the little things, my friends. Count your blessings. It will keep your chin above water and your spirit out of the muck the Real World throws at you.
***
Let's see, what is Bailey reading these days?
Currently lying in my bed with me and Max at night is: No One Could Have Guessed the Weather. I found it, of all places, at the 99 Cent store. It was praised on the front cover by Isabel Gillies (who wrote A Year and Six Seconds which was absolutely fantastic), who compared it to The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, which I read in college and ate up like a big ol' bite of pizza washed down with beer. Yummy, literary beer.
Mmmmmmmm. LOVE great femme writers. They make me happy to be a woman, and a writer, so I can say I am a part of their tribe.
Anyway. I'm only like 20 pages into Weather, but I have high hopes!
Did I mention I'm in love with Marisa de los Santos? I have two of her books cracked currently.
She's. So. GOOD!
Never mind that I'm not finishing a single one of these hundred thousand books I have cracked. Meh. C'est la vie des livres.
That's all for now! Off to get my massage! Ahhhhhhhhh.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
Friday
I stopped by Foster's Donuts this morning.
Either the woman working misheard me or really likes me, because I requested two sprinkle donuts but when I got to work I discovered three rings of confection in my white paper bag.
Score. Sugary, cakey score.
I've eaten one, not sure when I'll consume the other two. Perhaps I will bring them to the
THIRD ANNUAL GAL PAL GETAWAY
with
GAL PAL LAURA
for breakfast consumption tomorrow morning.
Who knows when we'll eat them? The world is our oyster. Or donut, as it were.
***
I went to Alex's improv show last night. I was very impressed by everyone's quick wit, and I never cease to be impressed by Alex's talent.
They did a mock poetry reading, and A pretended to be a painfully shy child and he was just so precious it was all I could do not to squeal from the front row.
SIGH.
So precious. And he's mine. Yay.
***
Do you ever stop and think about how much our lives can change from week to week?
Par example, last week I spent every night at Alex's place, affixing new bandages to his recent bicycle accident wounds.
This week I've hardly thought about that. But for a week that was my life. This life just changes, swiftly and steadily.
Hmm. Just thought I'd share that little musing.
***
It's also interesting to me that I can be so wrapped up in a book, and then suddenly stop reading it for a bit and not miss it. I'm reading Marisa de los Santos' "Belong to Me" right now, and it's ridiculously good.
I was tearing through it, but then I just got busy and I haven't touched it too much recently.
I mean, I absolutely look forward to getting back to it, but I'm not actively missing it.
But I feel a twinge of guilt that I'm not driving through it, as though the match of passion has burned out on a crush and I'm wondering why the bottom of my feelings have dropped out. (Except my crush for Marisa de los Santos is still there and I love her work). Is that weird?
I feel similar guilt regarding clothes in my closet that I don't wear very often. I feel as if I'm not giving them adequate attention. Does this stem from my place as a forgotten middle child? Something to explore in therapy...
Who's with me? Inanimate object guilt? Anyone?
I'm sure if my brother Patrick is reading this he's thinking, "Bailey, you're overthinking this." Can't argue with him, but I plan to continue overthinking, thank you very much.
In other Patrick news, he is headed to Africa tomorrow, which will make me and him the only two Brewers to have traveled to the motherland. Holla. Passport club!
***
My new favorite game at karaoke is to have the DJ pick a song for me. I've told him that basically anything poppy from the 90s is a safe bet. So far he's called me on to the stage to sing Alanis' "You Oughta Know" and Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life."
The latter makes me think of my seventh grade boyfriend, because he loved that song and I remember vividly him jumping up and down at one of our school dances to the "Doo doo doo"s.
He's gay now.
***
A bientot! Happy Gal Pal Weekend! Thanks for reading!
Xoxo
Either the woman working misheard me or really likes me, because I requested two sprinkle donuts but when I got to work I discovered three rings of confection in my white paper bag.
Score. Sugary, cakey score.
I've eaten one, not sure when I'll consume the other two. Perhaps I will bring them to the
THIRD ANNUAL GAL PAL GETAWAY
with
GAL PAL LAURA
for breakfast consumption tomorrow morning.
Who knows when we'll eat them? The world is our oyster. Or donut, as it were.
***
I went to Alex's improv show last night. I was very impressed by everyone's quick wit, and I never cease to be impressed by Alex's talent.
They did a mock poetry reading, and A pretended to be a painfully shy child and he was just so precious it was all I could do not to squeal from the front row.
SIGH.
So precious. And he's mine. Yay.
***
Do you ever stop and think about how much our lives can change from week to week?
Par example, last week I spent every night at Alex's place, affixing new bandages to his recent bicycle accident wounds.
This week I've hardly thought about that. But for a week that was my life. This life just changes, swiftly and steadily.
Hmm. Just thought I'd share that little musing.
***
It's also interesting to me that I can be so wrapped up in a book, and then suddenly stop reading it for a bit and not miss it. I'm reading Marisa de los Santos' "Belong to Me" right now, and it's ridiculously good.
I was tearing through it, but then I just got busy and I haven't touched it too much recently.
I mean, I absolutely look forward to getting back to it, but I'm not actively missing it.
But I feel a twinge of guilt that I'm not driving through it, as though the match of passion has burned out on a crush and I'm wondering why the bottom of my feelings have dropped out. (Except my crush for Marisa de los Santos is still there and I love her work). Is that weird?
I feel similar guilt regarding clothes in my closet that I don't wear very often. I feel as if I'm not giving them adequate attention. Does this stem from my place as a forgotten middle child? Something to explore in therapy...
Who's with me? Inanimate object guilt? Anyone?
I'm sure if my brother Patrick is reading this he's thinking, "Bailey, you're overthinking this." Can't argue with him, but I plan to continue overthinking, thank you very much.
In other Patrick news, he is headed to Africa tomorrow, which will make me and him the only two Brewers to have traveled to the motherland. Holla. Passport club!
***
My new favorite game at karaoke is to have the DJ pick a song for me. I've told him that basically anything poppy from the 90s is a safe bet. So far he's called me on to the stage to sing Alanis' "You Oughta Know" and Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Kind of Life."
The latter makes me think of my seventh grade boyfriend, because he loved that song and I remember vividly him jumping up and down at one of our school dances to the "Doo doo doo"s.
He's gay now.
***
A bientot! Happy Gal Pal Weekend! Thanks for reading!
Xoxo
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Dad says I need to write
I talked to my Dad yesterday, as I munched on tuna salad (like, a salad with tuna on top -- not a sandwich with tuna salad in between the bread).
He said our friends Rick and Maureen (also my former landlords extraordinaire) want to know how my book is coming.
Ummmm[gurgly eschewing-the-question noises]mmmmmmmmm, I said.
[Laughter], Dad said.
Daddy Dearest then requested that I get some writing in "before you forget how to do it."
Admittedly, I have started -- and abandoned -- several blog posts in the last couple of weeks.
The book hasn't been touched since last year, I'm pretty sure.
But since FATHER asked specifically, I will write SOMETHING here and then post it and you're welcome.
The good news is I have been very active in 2016, so I have plenty of material to draw from. So let's begin with a smattering of thoughts and musings, shall we?
Onward.
#1. I am becoming one with karaoke.
I would say I'm obsessed. I would say I'm falling in love. But as I dissect it more closely, I'd have to say that karaoke is just becoming a part of me.
(Normally), when one first begins singing karaoke, the number one emotion tied to the action is fear. Also maybe some elation, excitement, fun. But certainly some nervousness in there as well.
Well, I'm at the point where I just get up there and do it, the way I would sit down to stitch some X's into perforated fabric, or snuggle my kitten's face, or drink a beer. It's just easy peasy. It's fun, don't get me wrong, but I'm no longer like, "Eeeeeeek" when they call my name to take the stage. I'm just like, "Circle of Life in the key of E, yo."
I'm also getting to know some new pals at our favorite local bar, which is making karaoke way more fun than it already naturally is.
#2. Billiards is also becoming a part of my natural self/life.
Adding to our favorite local bar's charm -- in addition to the great patrons and karaoke two nights a week -- is the fact that it has a pool table, and games are a whopping 50 cents.
I am beginning to love pool so much that I gladly dip into my precious quarters-for-laundry collection to play several times a week.
I have some off moments, to be sure, but...to be honest...I'm getting a little better at the game. And that's fun.
#3. I'm getting pretty organized.
My car and bedroom, while not pristine, are currently not atrocious.
One of my besties, Laura, is coming to stay with us tonight, and I am not cringing with self consciousness at the fact that she might walk into a horrendous mess this evening (just a number of days ago I would have been clamoring to keep her away from my horribly messy room).
I did some laundry last night. I'm getting better at using my evenings and weekends and spare time to do at least small things in the effort of becoming more clean/organized/calm/Namaste.
#4. Several books are being cracked these days.
To New Year date, I believe three books have been completed. (I didn't read 16, like my friend Jill). But I have books, books, books everywhere, in various states of being read. On the shelves, in my purse, in my car, in my bed.
Books about the Titanic, post-World War II, pregnancy (it's a novel, not a Bailey-reading-for-personal-info book), menopause (see previous parenthetical, except replace "novel" with "memoir"), cessation of smoking (this is a kid's book, I promise; again, not for self help), a castle that comes to life, the hospitality industry...
On and on.
Oh how I love to read. I want to write a blog post about my lifelong love affair with words, but for some reason am not quite up to pull the trigger on that one.
Books. Read. Yum.
#5. My refrigerator magnet collection is getting a wee bit out of control.
Or it's on point, depending on how you see things.
In the last couple of months, I have collected new magnetic booty from:
The Sonoran Desert
Yosemite
Catalina Island
Ensenada, Mexico
Kansas City, MO
The Carnival Imagination cruise ship
Somewhere along Highway 99
This weekend I plan to pick one up from Santa Barbara.
Let's just say the wheels of my suitcase have been getting some exercise of late.
#6. I get to hang with my friend Laura, which is rad.
Before Valentine's I went on a cruise with Lola, her BF, my BF, and her parents. This past Monday we hung out at the beach with Abs during Laura's layover. And this weekend we're headed to a beach getaway.
This is our third annual gal pal vacation we'll be taking together, and to put it only lightly I LOVE this tradition. It is things like this that make me love being a (without kids) adult. Planning vacations with friends and making them happen. This might sound over the top, but in a way it is a dream come true for me. I spent a lot of my adolescence feeling like I was on the outside looking in on other people's living of normal life/events/happiness, and I feel like, now at 30, I am grabbing life by the horns and making things happen and oh if it doesn't feel GREAT.
#7. My nephew is hilarious.
I Skyped with him this weekend, and he made me laugh, more than once.
All right, Kiddoes, I did it! I wrote something. Never mind that it's a listy blog post, I got my fingers doing keyboard aerobics and that is something.
Some. Thing.
Be back soon, with some better writing, hopefully.
Love,
Me
He said our friends Rick and Maureen (also my former landlords extraordinaire) want to know how my book is coming.
Ummmm[gurgly eschewing-the-question noises]mmmmmmmmm, I said.
[Laughter], Dad said.
Daddy Dearest then requested that I get some writing in "before you forget how to do it."
Admittedly, I have started -- and abandoned -- several blog posts in the last couple of weeks.
The book hasn't been touched since last year, I'm pretty sure.
But since FATHER asked specifically, I will write SOMETHING here and then post it and you're welcome.
The good news is I have been very active in 2016, so I have plenty of material to draw from. So let's begin with a smattering of thoughts and musings, shall we?
Onward.
#1. I am becoming one with karaoke.
I would say I'm obsessed. I would say I'm falling in love. But as I dissect it more closely, I'd have to say that karaoke is just becoming a part of me.
(Normally), when one first begins singing karaoke, the number one emotion tied to the action is fear. Also maybe some elation, excitement, fun. But certainly some nervousness in there as well.
Well, I'm at the point where I just get up there and do it, the way I would sit down to stitch some X's into perforated fabric, or snuggle my kitten's face, or drink a beer. It's just easy peasy. It's fun, don't get me wrong, but I'm no longer like, "Eeeeeeek" when they call my name to take the stage. I'm just like, "Circle of Life in the key of E, yo."
I'm also getting to know some new pals at our favorite local bar, which is making karaoke way more fun than it already naturally is.
#2. Billiards is also becoming a part of my natural self/life.
Adding to our favorite local bar's charm -- in addition to the great patrons and karaoke two nights a week -- is the fact that it has a pool table, and games are a whopping 50 cents.
I am beginning to love pool so much that I gladly dip into my precious quarters-for-laundry collection to play several times a week.
I have some off moments, to be sure, but...to be honest...I'm getting a little better at the game. And that's fun.
#3. I'm getting pretty organized.
My car and bedroom, while not pristine, are currently not atrocious.
One of my besties, Laura, is coming to stay with us tonight, and I am not cringing with self consciousness at the fact that she might walk into a horrendous mess this evening (just a number of days ago I would have been clamoring to keep her away from my horribly messy room).
I did some laundry last night. I'm getting better at using my evenings and weekends and spare time to do at least small things in the effort of becoming more clean/organized/calm/Namaste.
#4. Several books are being cracked these days.
To New Year date, I believe three books have been completed. (I didn't read 16, like my friend Jill). But I have books, books, books everywhere, in various states of being read. On the shelves, in my purse, in my car, in my bed.
Books about the Titanic, post-World War II, pregnancy (it's a novel, not a Bailey-reading-for-personal-info book), menopause (see previous parenthetical, except replace "novel" with "memoir"), cessation of smoking (this is a kid's book, I promise; again, not for self help), a castle that comes to life, the hospitality industry...
On and on.
Oh how I love to read. I want to write a blog post about my lifelong love affair with words, but for some reason am not quite up to pull the trigger on that one.
Books. Read. Yum.
#5. My refrigerator magnet collection is getting a wee bit out of control.
Or it's on point, depending on how you see things.
In the last couple of months, I have collected new magnetic booty from:
The Sonoran Desert
Yosemite
Catalina Island
Ensenada, Mexico
Kansas City, MO
The Carnival Imagination cruise ship
Somewhere along Highway 99
This weekend I plan to pick one up from Santa Barbara.
Let's just say the wheels of my suitcase have been getting some exercise of late.
#6. I get to hang with my friend Laura, which is rad.
Before Valentine's I went on a cruise with Lola, her BF, my BF, and her parents. This past Monday we hung out at the beach with Abs during Laura's layover. And this weekend we're headed to a beach getaway.
This is our third annual gal pal vacation we'll be taking together, and to put it only lightly I LOVE this tradition. It is things like this that make me love being a (without kids) adult. Planning vacations with friends and making them happen. This might sound over the top, but in a way it is a dream come true for me. I spent a lot of my adolescence feeling like I was on the outside looking in on other people's living of normal life/events/happiness, and I feel like, now at 30, I am grabbing life by the horns and making things happen and oh if it doesn't feel GREAT.
A snap from Gal Pal Trip #1
#7. My nephew is hilarious.
I Skyped with him this weekend, and he made me laugh, more than once.
All right, Kiddoes, I did it! I wrote something. Never mind that it's a listy blog post, I got my fingers doing keyboard aerobics and that is something.
Some. Thing.
Be back soon, with some better writing, hopefully.
Love,
Me
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Catalina
A 36-year-old boy before me, curly hair flapping in the breeze, every inch of him free on that beach cruiser bike.
Boyfriend shaking his head as I shiver, three layers and 60 degrees for warmth.
Watching the swell of the ocean, remembering a recent viewing of Titanic. A birthday boy's arms wrapped around me, eyes closed, breathing in his comfort.
Dramamine blues against a grey sky, waiting out the drowsy malaise to enjoy the company of my love.
Upturned teacups of fog capping the island hills; candle snuffers on God's acolyte stick.
Golf carts our only competition in traffic; a relieved me, whose bum hasn't graced the seat of a cycle in a decade.
Cursing my lack of fitness, wanting to throw the bicycle down. "You're beautiful," says A, leaning my direction to apply a healing kiss.
Finding clouds lifted as we filter out to a balcony. Dandelion light in the harbor below. I long to swim in the water that I know is too cold.
Ice cream dripping down my hand, gumming the seams of the gear shift. Forgetting to be stressed as we race back to the boat.
A slow day but hardly bored, with this man whose humor triggers my laugh, whose hand fills mine, whose crannies of the heart match the nooks in mine.
Beers on the bow. Clinking our Hawaiian brews, remembering a shared vacation of yore. Dreaming of travel ahead.
Brilliant sunshine warming me through, the boat's powerful wake spitting a hundred feet behind, waving goodbye to our day for two.
Back to the city; hurried showers, tired frames. Spirits renewed as friends crowd the bar, hugs all around before collapsing into couches and conversation. The day carrying on into the night, celebrating my honey bee and his life, oh his precious life.
Boyfriend shaking his head as I shiver, three layers and 60 degrees for warmth.
Watching the swell of the ocean, remembering a recent viewing of Titanic. A birthday boy's arms wrapped around me, eyes closed, breathing in his comfort.
Dramamine blues against a grey sky, waiting out the drowsy malaise to enjoy the company of my love.
Upturned teacups of fog capping the island hills; candle snuffers on God's acolyte stick.
Golf carts our only competition in traffic; a relieved me, whose bum hasn't graced the seat of a cycle in a decade.
Cursing my lack of fitness, wanting to throw the bicycle down. "You're beautiful," says A, leaning my direction to apply a healing kiss.
Finding clouds lifted as we filter out to a balcony. Dandelion light in the harbor below. I long to swim in the water that I know is too cold.
Ice cream dripping down my hand, gumming the seams of the gear shift. Forgetting to be stressed as we race back to the boat.
A slow day but hardly bored, with this man whose humor triggers my laugh, whose hand fills mine, whose crannies of the heart match the nooks in mine.
Beers on the bow. Clinking our Hawaiian brews, remembering a shared vacation of yore. Dreaming of travel ahead.
Brilliant sunshine warming me through, the boat's powerful wake spitting a hundred feet behind, waving goodbye to our day for two.
Back to the city; hurried showers, tired frames. Spirits renewed as friends crowd the bar, hugs all around before collapsing into couches and conversation. The day carrying on into the night, celebrating my honey bee and his life, oh his precious life.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Another moment in which I wonder if I will be a good parent
One of my biggest fears,
if I'm being honest with you, World,
is that I may require too much sleep to be a parent.
I think I can overcome my selfishness. I think I can navigate unforeseen issues. I can handle a lot. I am strong.
But I am weak when it comes to violating an early bedtime.
Just hours ago, I was thinking about how I'm ready for kids. Maybe more eager than I had previously thought. I have stitched enough X's onto canvas. I have read enough books to satiate my appetite (this, I know, is a lie). I can set these things aside and trade them in for years of diapering. The extreme love will be worth it all.
I tell myself this in the morning. In the innocent, not yet slammed with tiredness morning.
And now, at 1:33 p.m., I feel like I am going to die.
I am, through and through: exhausted.
I can't shake the fatigue. It is consuming my thoughts, my bones, my ability to move beyond a shuffle. Weeks of back-to-back weekend travel, with work days in between -- it's finally getting to me. It's grating against my stamina, causing the world to spin with drama and self pity.
Tonight I have a dinner date, and tomorrow morning I am to catch an early boat with my love to go to an island and celebrate his birthday. Upon our return from the island, we will take showers and get beautiful and then head to a late-into-the-night party for continued birthday celebrations.
Now I know, rationally, that I will sleep on Sunday. That tomorrow, with some coffee, I will be my usual, surprisingly morning person self. That, on my feet, on the island, my spirits will likely be up. That I will collapse into a chair with a cocktail, and smile at the wonderful people in Alex's life and mine. The fatigue won't be all consuming, but rather an afterthought.
I know that, come Sunday, I can sleep, or whine, or cry, or shake my fists tiredly in the air, furious with the unfairness of being bone tired.
I can do that, because I don't have kids. No noses will need to be wiped, nor butts for that matter, no dinners to be cooked, no entertaining needing to be offered to restless, toddling bodies and minds.
But all I can think, in my pathetic, tired, sob story state, is: but what if I did have kids? What would I do? Am I fit for motherhood?
Because truly. It is the being tired all the time that scares me the most. When I am tired, the floor falls out from beneath me. Reality starts to melt. Emotions -- the bad ones -- swell tenfold.
Sure, there is the occasional elation from a fit of giggles that can only be known in one's maddeningly tired state. The giggles that bubble when someone looks at you and says only your name, or the word "banana," or something else that shouldn't make you giggle but does.
But will that be enough?
I sure hope my kids make me laugh, because I need it to be enough.
Either that or I'll need a large dose of Prozac. A husband to pull my weeping self into his chest, when it all becomes too much. And the best kids. Kids with grins and messy curls and creative minds, all to buoy their crazy mother in the harbor.
I wonder how many Sundays I'll have left. Sundays with naps, and food delivered to my door, and neglected chores and early bedtimes.
I wonder if I'll miss them after kids arrive.
Something tells me I won't, even though I find myself at this moment dramatic and worried, longing for rest and assurance that I will always be guaranteed enough of it.
I sip my tea and ponder this, watching the sediment of ground leaves fall into organized lines at the bottom of my cup, forming art without care, like sand on the ocean floor.
if I'm being honest with you, World,
is that I may require too much sleep to be a parent.
I think I can overcome my selfishness. I think I can navigate unforeseen issues. I can handle a lot. I am strong.
But I am weak when it comes to violating an early bedtime.
Just hours ago, I was thinking about how I'm ready for kids. Maybe more eager than I had previously thought. I have stitched enough X's onto canvas. I have read enough books to satiate my appetite (this, I know, is a lie). I can set these things aside and trade them in for years of diapering. The extreme love will be worth it all.
I tell myself this in the morning. In the innocent, not yet slammed with tiredness morning.
And now, at 1:33 p.m., I feel like I am going to die.
I am, through and through: exhausted.
I can't shake the fatigue. It is consuming my thoughts, my bones, my ability to move beyond a shuffle. Weeks of back-to-back weekend travel, with work days in between -- it's finally getting to me. It's grating against my stamina, causing the world to spin with drama and self pity.
Tonight I have a dinner date, and tomorrow morning I am to catch an early boat with my love to go to an island and celebrate his birthday. Upon our return from the island, we will take showers and get beautiful and then head to a late-into-the-night party for continued birthday celebrations.
Now I know, rationally, that I will sleep on Sunday. That tomorrow, with some coffee, I will be my usual, surprisingly morning person self. That, on my feet, on the island, my spirits will likely be up. That I will collapse into a chair with a cocktail, and smile at the wonderful people in Alex's life and mine. The fatigue won't be all consuming, but rather an afterthought.
I know that, come Sunday, I can sleep, or whine, or cry, or shake my fists tiredly in the air, furious with the unfairness of being bone tired.
I can do that, because I don't have kids. No noses will need to be wiped, nor butts for that matter, no dinners to be cooked, no entertaining needing to be offered to restless, toddling bodies and minds.
But all I can think, in my pathetic, tired, sob story state, is: but what if I did have kids? What would I do? Am I fit for motherhood?
Because truly. It is the being tired all the time that scares me the most. When I am tired, the floor falls out from beneath me. Reality starts to melt. Emotions -- the bad ones -- swell tenfold.
Sure, there is the occasional elation from a fit of giggles that can only be known in one's maddeningly tired state. The giggles that bubble when someone looks at you and says only your name, or the word "banana," or something else that shouldn't make you giggle but does.
But will that be enough?
I sure hope my kids make me laugh, because I need it to be enough.
Either that or I'll need a large dose of Prozac. A husband to pull my weeping self into his chest, when it all becomes too much. And the best kids. Kids with grins and messy curls and creative minds, all to buoy their crazy mother in the harbor.
I wonder how many Sundays I'll have left. Sundays with naps, and food delivered to my door, and neglected chores and early bedtimes.
I wonder if I'll miss them after kids arrive.
Something tells me I won't, even though I find myself at this moment dramatic and worried, longing for rest and assurance that I will always be guaranteed enough of it.
I sip my tea and ponder this, watching the sediment of ground leaves fall into organized lines at the bottom of my cup, forming art without care, like sand on the ocean floor.
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