Up before 5. Downstairs with Jackie…
Drinking coffee and ready for the day.
Tried going back to bed, but Jackie was insistent on going downstairs, starting the day. So I followed. Ready for story.
Before I put him back to pillow and sheet, telling him it’s still sleeptime, he sat up straight, refusing rest, telling he’d wait for the sun to rise (which was less than an hour away..). And he did. There’s that quality again, I thought. The follow-through with an idea, mission, project.
Sitting on the floor, watching a cartoon (not sure which one), waiting for this goddamn coffee to work. The writing father, with the long day ahead of him– still have to shave and shower… Would give one of my arms for a couple hours more sleep. But then I’m not recording. Keep going, I tell myself.
Have to be out by, what… 8? Easy. Time for waffles, Jackie courts.
Waffles in… The writing father steals a second or three to write before– yep, upstairs to Emma, who’ll be 7 months in 13 days. How.
Now me downstairs with both minis while Alice runs. Need to shower, iron some pants, find a shirt… Writerfather has to time and schedule everything, I feel. Even breathing. But there’s no other stage arrangement I prefer. This is my story. And I love the pressure and variables. Emma’s smile and sounds… I’d have them dominate every schedule and timetable that’d find my map.
Now upstairs with the little plum, thought she looked tired, wanted to snooze, but no.. A trap. Clever girl, wanting me all to herself for play.
But then her lids get heavy, and she slows.
The writing father has a couple more seconds he thinks, but then she becomes jumpy and jokey again. But the heavy lids execute unprecedented resilience. Then… Out. Almost made eye contact right before but turned away. She falls into her baby visions with a little victor’s smirk.
She pulls that purple blanket covering the bassinet over her face and I pull it away, then this giggles, she thinks it’s playtime when the writing father is quite in a mode devoted and serious. I wait again for her dream descent, but no, more luring the writing father into that tugofwar with her purple blanket, or cover.