I'm being a complete waste case today. When I got up, Jessie had already made her daddy a beautiful breakfast with eggs and bacon and all was merry with the little boy, shrieking his pterodactyl shrieks, and the kitchen filled with light and good smells and smiles and chuckles. I held August while his mama cooked her own breakfast and then she nursed him to sleep for his morning nap, rocking him and singing to him in the rocking chair I got long before I had a grandchild but which Mr. Moon took one look at when I brought it in and said, "You've bought yourself a grandmother chair."
I picked Jessie some greens and carrots and sent her home with those and with eggs. I would have given her anything/everything. This is how I feel now when my children leave my house.
"Here- take this." "Do you need this?" "What else do you want?"
I remember years ago I had a friend whose mother-in-law would bring her family big bags of huge packages of toilet paper and bread and paper towels and all sorts of things she'd bought and we sort of joked about it but now I understand. We know that we can't really take care of our children anymore but somehow, giving them these daily-use things makes us feel as if we are. At least a little bit.
I just want to read today. Maybe read and watch old Rolling Stones videos. It's gray and although I feel much better physically, I just don't want to do anything. Lazy, I suppose you would call it. But there are some things which need to be done, including cleaning the little chick residence. We showed August the babies last night and he was mesmerized. What were those little fluffy things with their constant peeps and scurrying about? I have started giving them bits of greens and apple and they eat them up. They are at the awkward stage of feathers-coming-in and sticking out everywhere, their patterns beginning to develop, their eyes so huge, their little beaks so clever and yellow and sharp. Mr. Moon is going to build them a box this weekend so that we can take them outside where they can scratch in the dirt (it won't have a floor) and yet be protected. It will have a screened top so that hawks can't get to them or snakes. I will still bring them in at night to sleep protected but they need the experience of being outside.
I wonder what the banties are going to end up looking like. The big chicks are the Barred Plymouth Rock and they will look like this,
But I am cannot yet tell what variety the bantams are. We shall see. Bantams are listed as "ornamental" chickens which makes me laugh. But won't their eggs be darling if they are hens?
Ah well. Here I sit, looking up Bantam varieties online while my real ones need fresh water and food and my big chickens need clean nests. Something is eating my sprouting creamer peas in the garden and I should replant those in this wet dirt.
But I am going to spend some time reading today. I keep thinking of this poem which arrived in my e-mail last week from The Poetry Foundation.
BY ELISABETH EYBERS
Always a broom leaned against a wall,
meals never on time, if they come at all.
Days without dates through which she moves
empty and stubborn, slightly confused.
Ironing hung dejectedly over a chair,
gestures that come from who-knows-where.
Old letters unanswered, piled together,
papers and pills stuffed deep in a drawer.
Thankful to be part of your heart's great whole
yet devoted to the limits of her own small skull.
O orderly biped, take heed,
leave her alone—let her read.
It seems perfect for today.
Happy Friday, y'all.