Tuesday, January 13, 2009
the blog resumes: with or without a working vocabulary
Well. Maybe I will do this again. In stops and starts. 5 minutes here. For the last year my journal entries, months apart, usually consist of two and a half sentences virtually identical to each other in exhausted pathos. It takes more than three sentences to write yourself into hope.
As I sit at my computer, my 4-month old son Ike, sleeps. Because he doesn't nap for long I won't be able to finish this post. Not now. While he sleeps I may have time to tidy our small apartment, take a short shower, or chop carrots for beef stew. Or, less usefully, play Word Twist and update my facebook status. Blogging requires a working vocabulary, linear thought, and a sense of humor. Which is a little much to ask of me lately.
I dread putting words to this transition: the new wife and mother roles haven't congealed and much of the time I feel like I'm play-acting at being myself. I imagined I'd step into a new life like putting on a velvety bathrobe, but so far it's been more like getting dressed in junior high. In the last year I've gotten pregnant, gotten married four times over, moved twice, bought my first condo, gave birth, and left the publishing job where I've been employed for the last nine years. As if transitioning to caring for an infant, with all the sleep depravation entailed, wasn't work enough. I just don't have time to think, which sort of rules out processing all these changes.
I've spent the last two weeks in Holualoa, Hawaii with Fr John and Jenny Schroedel. And although I can't honestly say that I had much time to think while here (the Schroedel's youngest daughter Natalie is a little two-year-old tornado), I've at least had time to think about not thinking. Which led to this blog post on my last night in Hawaii.
Their cavernous house is quiet now, the kids are all asleep, and the sound of crickets fills the cool night air. Ike and I fly back to New York tomorrow, to Charles and our tiny green-walled apartment in wintry South Harlem. Maybe I can begin processing this mother-wife thing online, in stops and starts, with or without glamorous graphics and linear thought. As Amber Schley Iragui. No more Lucy.