Thursday, December 3, 2009
A Place, Not A State Of Being.
Owen is coming and soon and I have just gotten up. I planned on getting up earlier because I have a few things in my life that do need to get done before that boy lands in my arms, this blog tending being one of them.
But my sleep has been put off every night by pains and aches (and no, they do not come from Owen but more from my foot and my twitching hips) and anyway, blah, blah, blah, all us old people will tell you about our pains. I certainly do. But when those pains and twitches assault me, I have to get up and get out of the cozy, warm bed with my two comforters on it (the duck, I call the bigger one, the duckling, the smaller one) and go out to the kitchen to read and apparently, to eat.
This is getting out of hand. Last night I ate granola and hell's bells, you might as well be eating Chex Mix, it's no better for you. Not the commercial sort, anyway. I only bought it right before Thanksgiving for the kids to eat for breakfast on Thanksgiving morning but they didn't and there it is, in my kitchen, just waiting for midnight plundering.
Last night, in reaching for the box, I knocked it over and so there I was, one-thirty in the morning, without my glasses, dressed in a sort of coat/duster thing I got at Goodwill which had probably originally come with a dress, having to sweep up granola, although the dogs helped. After I cleaned it all up, they continued to sniff around the kitchen, finding bits and pieces of sugary grains to snorfle down, much as I had been doing.
Really. This must end.
And I try to stay in bed. I stretch as carefully and slowly as I can under the covers, trying not to disturb Mr. Moon and I turn, carefully, and I stretch some more, carefully, and I fall back asleep and then another twitch wakes me and I start all over again.
And there was that full moon.
Anyway, this all led to me waking late and in a bit of a panic.
Quick, down the coffee! Quick, let Miss Betty out! Quick, feed the cats and feed the dogs and pour more coffee and forget the newspaper, get the computer and try to write about something.
So here I am and I have written about nothing.
I wanted to say that I believe I go through my life thinking that after this passes or that, life will return to normal. Normal. Ms. Bastard said yesterday that one of her semi-regular readers lives in Normal, Illinois and may I say that Ms. Bastard reads her stats more closely than I generally do? I will say that it is funny to me that my readers in the US come mostly from Florida, New York and California which seems odd to me, as I write about chickens and I can see the Florida connection but New York? California? You guys are sophisticated. You have artists and movie stars and CULTAH! and I have, well, chicken shit. And dog shit. And now baby poop.
BUT, don't you do that thing, too, where you think, after this project, this holiday, this crisis, this whatever, things will return to NORMAL?
And do they ever? Because what the fuck is normal? Normal may happen about once in a blue moon, and the rest of the time we are scurrying around trying to fit our little routines into whatever it is that has temporarily taken over our lives and thrown us around like astronauts in outer space, trying to find footing and figure out which is up and which is down under the difficult circumstances of weightlessness, of non-normalcy.
That's what I do anyway. After this little Opera House production is over, after Christmas, after Owen grows up? What? When? How?
Never. Never. Never.
It's never going to be normal and it's so funny that we humans think it will be and fight so hard not to adapt but to just put off and do later when things become more...normal. I have a difficult time with this. I do. And you'd think by now, after having spent a lifetime planning my days and very life around four children and a husband and the occasional jaunt into something which requires me to be at certain places at certain times, that I would know this and be more able to achieve it.
But I am not.
And I am not normal. Neither are you. Neither is anyone else. At least, as far as I can see. I think of all the people I know and love and not one of them is anywhere near normal. Thank God!
Let us remember that Normal is a town in Illinois. It is not a state of being we can achieve.
Time to cut up the grapes. Miss Betty waits for no man and she waits for no woman to get back to normal. Sam is crowing and in his voice I can hear him say, "I know you swept up granola last night. Bring it to me!" Granola is not his normal food but he will eat it with gusto.
And normally I would have a nice ending to tie things up with but lately my normal has not been normal but maybe after the play is over and Owen is grown up and it's oh, spring again, and my hips don't twitch and my foot doesn't hurt, I can give you that nice, normal tie-up.
Until then, remember this: No matter what your circumstances are, don't wait for normal to come to you. It won't. You will have to go visit it. It's in Illinois.
They talk funny there, did you know that?
Now, go forth and do not be normal.