Self-editing, self-loathing and other (mostly) shallow stuff

This is how my brain works: I edit myself in my sleep. Yesterday I wrote a Facebook status update saying I am “the sister of an Iron Man.” (My brother did one of those super-duper-crazy swim-bike-run triathlons...and did it very, very well!) But this morning I woke up thinking, “No—I am A sister of an Iron Man, not THE sister.” Because, of course, my brother has two sisters, and to say I am “the” sister implies I am the only one. Is this what is meant by the phrase “mincing words”? Splicing, dicing, dissecting, obsessing. I am a bona fide word nerd—it’s true. (But I try not to be pedantic about it.)

Other stuff, stream-of-consciousness style:

Pearl turned on some Southern gospel tunes for Baby Lia. (Grandpa B would not approve. Great-Grandpa B would have loved it, big Hee Haw fan that he was. I admit I inherited some of his Southern-ness—I rather enjoy a bit-o-twang wunst inna wahhle.) So I’ve got banjos in the background, accompanied by Star Wars Wii sounds—light sabers buzzing and whooshing, occasional explosions, robots…I mean droids…blipping and squeaking, all serenaded by John Williams-inspired horn fanfares. Quite a cacophony!

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Lia is 5 weeks old, and I’m pretty sure I’m busted. (Yes, I mean busted, not busty, although thanks to an ample milk supply, I’m that too…for me anyway.) Busted, as in: My extra pounds are not going to magically melt away this time, like they did after previous pregnancies. I have hard evidence: 1) My scale has not budged since about 3 days following the baby’s birth; 2) My mother-in-law visited us yesterday, snapped a family photo, and emailed it to us this morning. (I really look like that?? So-not-svelte!!) Third bit (and bite) of reality: I logged onto SparkPeople.com a couple days ago and discovered that my last weigh-in, July 12, 2009, found me 37 pounds lighter than my current density. Sigh…followed by deep, emboldening breath—It’s time to buck up and work out! Traditionally, writing has helped too, as advised/coached by Julia Cameron in her book The Writing Diet (weight-loss version of Cameron’s Artist’s Way). I considered rising early today to write the Morning Pages Cameron recommends, but the pillow won. Maybe if I make my intentions public, I’ll be more likely to resist the Snooze. (P.S. If any A-Town readers want to check out SparkPeople, be sure to tell them DeepBreath33 sent you—I am pathetically motivated by point systems such as SP’s.)

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Three more tidbits:

1) The ants are back. Time for some more Terro.

2) Our cat’s ear polyp is acting up again, which means she’ll need surgery soon. We simply can’t let the infection run rampant. It’s a bummer of an expense, but I don’t see any way around it.

3) Vi and I are joining our church’s Bible Quizzing team this year—she as a competitor and I as a coach. We’re studying the Book of John, which I never learned as quizzer. I’m stoked! (Click here to see why.)

Time is like labor

This summer is slipping away—

not like the hourglass sands, though—

not effortlessly, not so quickly I barely perceive its passing.

No, time is like labor:

It is difficult, it is painful, it is work.

It is natural, worthwhile, yielding life and love and beauty,

but—good heavens!—it often hurts, and I certainly notice.

Mothers who say, “Where did the time go?”

must have tapped into a cosmic epidural

of which I am unaware.

My small, small world

It’s Wednesday, right? No, Thursday…

I have entered the time warp that is my post-partum, been-out-of-the-house-only-4-times-in-the-past-12-days (and 1 of those times was a trip to the clothesline!), currently small, small world. I want to write, but I can barely think about anything but baby, and I’ve got a baby blog for sharing those thoughts (however incoherent). (And I reissue the invitation to write me at iluvalbion-at-yahoo-dot-com for the baby blog URL—I would broadcast it here, but I’m using our real names and therefore inclined to guard it more closely than this one.)

So, Life in A-Town suffers. In lieu of an official guest blogger (because I’m not that sophisticated, and certainly not organized enough to arrange such a thing), I direct my readers to Holly Goes Lightly, where the author recently penned a prescient post about the elusive milieu of contentment.

(See? My brain’s not all Mommy Mush—I just finessed the words “prescient” and “milieu” into the same sentence…although C. Harold Hurley would surely disapprove my lavish language. Sigh. Enough! Go read Holly. Should she get a dog, or not? I suspect it’s already been decided.)