Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Oh Mother, Where Art Thou?

Yesterday the babysitter came. She is, well, there's no way to avoid saying it, she's cute. She's got stripey highlighted hair and was wearing a bright red t-shirt that said: Dating a Theta? The back: Lucky You! She calls my son sparky. He runs to her with his tongue hanging out.

Watching this demonstration I feel like a long cane enters the picture to pull me off stage, underscored by some ridiculous kazoo music. It's 3:46 and I have three hours and fourteen minutes to myself. Or should I say t-h-r-e-e- h-o-u-r-s- a-n-d... f-f-f--- uuuuh. What? Oh. Hmm.

There's nothing scarier than driving 50mph in a new white car and not knowing who you are. I am thinking shit if I know what to do with myself for that long.

Truth be told, however, this is probably not a new predicament for me. Those of you with longer memories than the speaker of this text probably remember her former life as a poet (the predicament of poetry for me being I can't concentrate on anything for more than a few stanzas BUT I can't stop obsessing about these three things).

My brain is still in my head (at last check). My life, however, is a somewhat uneven dice. I go by the time of a 1 1/2 year old, which can be judged by the following algorithm:
truck-truck-put small object in mouth-truck-grab cat-offer truck to cat-find dirty binky-suck dirty binky-put binky in truck and so on...
That is to say, I have no ability to follow my own internal rhythms because I spend all of my time charting, trying to follow and/or modify the internal trajectory of my son.

What I have gained in sleep at this point, I seem to have lost in any ability to be self-directed.

And I am not saying this necessarily as a complaint. Just perhaps as an observation with a tilt of the head and a question mark. Perhaps like this ^? Shouldn't there be some sort of a suggestion above that diacritical mark? Or perhaps a telling comment, like "insert life here".

I find a way to piddle away the time anyway. I look in shops where I know my son would be A)bored out of his mind and/or B)pull everything off the shelves and try to use them as a teething implement for those hard-to-reach molars lurking beneath the gums. I eat at an "asian-fusion" restaurant where their idea of "fusion" is garnishing the pad thai with planter's dry-roasted peanuts.

I guess this is what it is like to try and get reacquainted. It's awkward, the silences. Nothing seems the way it did. Why would you expect it to? Lucky You.

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