I had a feeling he’d reach it. Kids playing and going mad, not just stir crazy. Was going to do bike 30 min then weight for same, but not feeling a workout in the garage. It’s not calling me. A run does a bit, but not as much as I want it to. So I sit here, in the corner at the table-desk, type to the black cup.
Planning and writing ideas for the blog-shop. And a business centered around running. Can always run or workout later in day. Right now I feel like Wednesday and I are still getting to know each other. And I feel I’m getting bored. Maybe I should just go for a walk like Jack and I did around the block last night. First time we did that. Reminded me of night walks with my dad in Sunriver. A couple during winter where we’d be walking through snow and over a bit of ice having to be a little more cautious than usual.
Mom would come with us sometimes, my sister as well. But I remember it as a thing for Dad and I. We’d also go for walks or extended walks, more so hikes, here in Sonoma County through Annadel. “Stomps” Dad would call them, not walks or hikes. I adopted the term and have longed for a stomp in the past few months.
Noticing people around me aging, getting sick in some cases. Mom reminds me of the song Cat In The Cradle, I think it’s called. You blink, and things are over. You turn your head, and people are gone. You walk just a little bit further, and you’re much, much older. So are your kids. Nice, way to start the day off on a dismally discouraging tone. I’ll try to turn it around but now I definitely don’t want to work out. Feel like I need a glass of wine, already. And it’s only 11:45. Goddamnit…
I won’t of course, but what’s in the writer’s circling thoughts and cognition. Hearing Jack and Emmie collaborating then combatting. Jack accuses her of tattling, then calms down and goes back to either building a fort with her or being a cop. “Let’s set it up, okay?” Jack says. Emmie agrees loudly and with volume-high animation. They aren’t bored. They’re not fretting. They’re not thinking about anything. They’re creating, producing. BUILDING.
Coffee waking me and getting me further into my types, but all I can hear are the border disputes with the babies. Thinking about my life’s work and where I am in life after watching the doctor look over little Henry, I further consolidate. Essays, ME.. the kids, wine, running, the Now. My sister’s life work is winemaking. Dad’s is aviation. Mom, aviation hospitality and hospitality, wine more recently. Me…. I’m always scared, or was, to centralize on something but I see where I am, 41. Having three kids and Jack reminding me that when Henry is 4, he’ll be 12. And I’ll be 46.
My life’s work is LIFE, and writing it. Wine is much of my life, but not the entirety. Or maybe it is, or should be. I’m thinking excessively…. That is comedic. Looking at the phone to my right. I’ll be on it all next week, I’m vowing to self. Hoping to have two contracts come in either this week, over this week and next, or next. My return has to be strong, the work of a writer with a self-knighted architecture of life’s work. A clear arc…