It's cold or what passes for cold here in North Florida. We have thin blood, or at least that's what we claim and speaking of blood, at least the mosquitoes are gone for awhile, hunkered down wherever mosquitoes go in the winter or their larva which can live for ten thousand years, I imagine, deep in the mud and happy to be there.
I've got this sweet old rambly house to myself and the 2.2 acres it sits on too and after I go to town this morning and get stuff done, I plan to be here, right here, for the next few days at least, not going anywhere, staying on this landlocked island of old dreams and kids' toys and chicken scratch yard and I'll walk from room to room through rooms and rooms and maybe I'll throw some shit away, I don't know. How did I get all this stuff? My god. I have make-up older than some of my kids, clothes too, and now there's alphabet puzzles and wooden blocks and dolls and all the stuff the boys play with, some of it the same stuff their mama and aunts and uncle played with. It's all a jumble and not necessarily a glory, either.
Last night Owen found an old post-it note by his grandfather's laptop and he read it for me.
This is what it said, according to Owen who is three years old:
"Dear Boppy. Come home soon. I love you."
Where did he learn that letters start with "Dear"? I don't understand where knowledge and information come from any more than I understand where stuff comes from. It just comes to us. Some of it precious and some of it not. Gibson can clap his hands now. It delights him. He can also say, "Bye-bye," and wave. I am not kidding you. He's not even eight months old. When he wants to be picked up (which occurs approximately fourteen seconds after you put him down somewhere) he says, "Ma-ma-ma-ma."
He ate more for supper last night than his brother did. Whole wheat noodles and tomatoes, mostly, but anything he could get his hands on.
Owen likes to drink water from shot glasses. He gets ice and water from the refrigerator and keeps that little glass filled and ready for sipping. He gets a shot glass and fills it with ice and water for me too. He is remarkably skilled in doing this. He also likes to drink water from the martini shaker.
I don't know that this is good.
Soon I will teach him to make martinis. Why not? A child must learn to be useful. He loves to wash the dishes but he does not do a very good job at that. Still, he is enthusiastic about it. I sit at the kitchen counter with Gibson in my arms, feeding him bites of banana and trying to read a magazine and say things like, "That's enough soap, Owen. No more soap. OWEN! No more soap! Watch out, you're getting water everywhere. Look, baby. The soap is dripping onto the floor." Etc.
Eventually he gets tired of washing the dishes. Sometimes he grabs his little broom and my big broom and says, "Come on, Mer Mer. Time to clean this up."
He's always right about that.
It's aways time to clean this up. I don't care what you're talking about.
So it goes. And I need to attend to things in this rambly old house and get to town and get my supplies for my solo hunkering down which I am going to be doing in the next few days here. I need to take the dog to get his stitches out. And take the trash. I should take a walk. I should do some yoga. I should write a novel. I should sew a dress or pants or curtains. I should clean this up.
But mostly, I think, after I get everything done I have to get done, I am going to rest.
Happy Friday, y'all.