Tap. Tap. Tap. Whirl.
This is what it would sound like if my thoughts made noise.
I actually Googled "I am bored."
Spellcheck needs to get up to speed. Googled is spelled wrong. So is spellcheck. Go figure. I'm not fixing it.
I'm restless, fidgety, scattered.
I don't want to read a book.
I don't want to watch TV.
Or play a game.
Although I did play a couple.
I'm thinking about getting a drink, but the kitchen is oh-so-far-away. And the chair is squishy.
Carly is sleeping on the couch, every now and then her breath goes 'whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh' and it's a beautiful, snorty sound. She looks very sweet when she's storing up energy to do this with:
I keep thinking about babies. It's not that I want to have more babies, I'm pretty happy with my two perfect children. Perfectly imperfect children. (No, really Dad, I don't want more kids. I haven't changed my mind.) But it seems like 90% of the blogs I read/stumble on/pass over have 'time to baby' meters. It's just cruel. It doesn't matter one whit, to my heart, that it has been 10 years since I gave birth to my only biological child. My heart questions the whats and whys of not being pregnant since then. Not pregnant, no miscarriages, just nothing. The baby meters point to my 'barren'-ness, mocking me. Worse still, sometimes I think people are scared to tell me they are having a baby. Because they don't want to rub it in. But, seriously, your popping baby belly does give you away. I'm happy for people who are having babies. I don't want other people's babies. I want my babies. Which I guess, in Carly's case, is other people's babies. But she was my baby before she came here, she just arrived via a different bus. I wonder at times if I tell myself that 2 is enough to convince myself that 2 is enough. I still get my hopes up before I take a pregnancy test. I still hope that my late-night cravings are caused by a little swimmer in my womb. I still feel crushed each and every time the answer is no. I'll never get over it. I will always feel like a failure about it. I wish those 'time to baby' meters would all malfunction at the same time and never be posted again. It would be easier for me. And it's all about me.
My house is almost too big, there are rooms we never use. When Eric's brother stops staying with us during the week, we'll have a whole extra empty room upstairs for guests to sleep in when they come visit. How crazy is that? I know how lucky I am, trust me. We got used to living in a cracker box, all of us shoved together, and now we're not really sure what to do with the space. Most nights we are all crowded together in the family room(except Poppa, he likes to sleep in his chair in his room), tumbling over each other to the roar of the TV. It's mahvelous.
I tried to work on my Scribblins, it didn't get very far. My story has stalled and though I've tried to force it, the words just won't come out. I tried starting something new, but the well feels dry. Perhaps my restlessness comes from many stories all crowded together in my brain with no way out. Someone should hang me upside down by my toes and shake me.
I can hear the rumble of movement upstairs, the game of musical poddy-time that the men play, the creaking of bed springs under arms and legs, the ebb and flow of the furnace switching on.
I've shared much more than I intended.
My eyes are heavy, but my mind still spins and dances.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Whirl.