I do not feel like a writer lately. Instead, I feel like The Very Hungry Caterpillar, when the caterpillar has eaten a huge list of food, from pickles and lollipops to ice cream and cherry pie, and gets so fat that his body fills the page. I wish I could just wrap myself up inside a cocoon, hide away from the world for a little while, and turn into a butterfly. It sounds so much more relaxing. But instead I have to move my massive body around and chase after Little Scribe, all the while preparing for Baby Scribe’s arrival. It’s draining, to say the least.
But Baby Scribe is doing very well, so that’s good. He seems extremely happy in his snuggly little home. I am at 34 and a half weeks, past when Little Scribe was born, and Baby Scribe isn’t showing any signs of wanting to come out! It’s exciting to know that he will most likely be a healthy baby boy that doesn’t need to stay in the NICU and can come home with me right away, and also scary beyond belief because I need to be prepared NOW for his arrival. But most of our baby stuff is still hidden away in the garage. I don’t even know where my breast pump is! Trying to clean and pack up after Christmas, get the boys’ room ready for Baby Scribe, and gather together all of our “baby” contraptions from the garage while surviving in our construction-zone of a house under piles and piles of laundry and dishes that never seem to get done even thought we clean them over and over is taking its toll.
Maybe Christmas and New Years finally caught up to me. I did not participate in “significantly reduced activity” like my doctor advised. I felt pumped and excited watching my son enjoy his Christmas and really discover the holidays for the first time. (Unlike the blank expressions he gave when he saw lights or visited Santa when he was younger.) His enthusiasm kept me going, and I always rested if I felt that I did too much.
Now, I am not doing as much, and I feel more tired and drained than ever!
Must interrupt my thoughts—I am sitting inside St. Honore Boulangerie and overhearing a group of two women and a man discussing Thousand Oaks, Moorpark, and the area where I used to live in southern California one and a half years ago. Funny to hear those names here in conversation. I think one of the women is from Moorpark, and she thinks it’s so funny how the former farming town has become a “bedroom community” for Los Angeles. There really are a lot of Los Angeles area “expats” here. It’s the Oregon Trail all over again, one hundred and fifty-plus years later!
A few days ago just for fun my husband and I showed Little Scribe home videos of when he was a baby back in SoCal. Oh, I started to cry! He was such a cutie! Still is, but such a little boy now and not a baby at all. I also felt a bit homesick for our old home again, but I love where we live now, if that makes any sense. It’s the memories that I have there that do me in, really. I also realized that Little Scribe is now going on living here in Oregon longer than he lived in California! We moved here when he was only one and a half, and soon, after he turns three in a couple of weeks, he will have lived here longer. That feels so strange to me. And to think that Baby Scribe will have only lived here in Oregon is stranger still!
Back to my original thread—Oh, I don’t really want to. I’m tired of complaining. This blog entry is supposed to get my fingers warmed up, not make me feel worse. Time to enter another blog entry on a different topic. I want to start reviewing books again, so hopefully I will stick with it for a while.
Here’s to dreaming of my butterfly days to come, hopefully a year from now!
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