35: Pitter Patter

Hello from five weeks into having pushed a small human out of a too-small hole in my body. The present scene is quieter than that one: I am here on my couch in sweatshirt and wool socks, dressed like it’s not 65 degrees outside; there is a pot of turkey stock simmering in the kitchen, all the lamps are on guard against the 5 pm darkness, and said small human is screeching like the tires on a getaway car while she sleeps in a recently-deemed-illegal baby pillow bed thing next to me. The footed onesie with the smiling forest creatures she’s almost too big for I hadn’t even bought from Target in a 2 am fugue state last time I wrote. Very rude how this newborn keeps insisting on becoming less and less new! 

I will have more to say about this sometime, and hopefully also the brain oomph to say it. For now, some pure self-promotion: Last summer I wrote an essay about pregnancy and Bigfoot, and the other week it was published on Oprah Daily dot com. I know!!! Not quite one of her Favorite Things, but closer than I ever thought I’d get, having not been born a candle or a super soft throw blanket. You can read it here.

Now I must wrap this up before the idyll is broken by someone’s shrieking desire to eat. The baby’s or mine? Why not both?