The Morning Dance
created 13 March 06
revised 23 April 06
To the incessant tick
Of the clock in the corner
The hum of the razor
The smell of soap lingering in the air
We dance the morning dance.
Rubbing tired eyes
Slip-shod feet
Wriggling fingers
In and out of pajama tops
And too-small bottoms
Snaps and fasteners
Little socks and tiny shoes
We dance the morning dance.
To margarine crackling on toasted bread
Coloful characters playing on the screen
Yogurt, applesauce and pretzels thrown in a bag
And milk—always milk—
In bottles and sippies
Gushing down night-parched throats
We dance the morning dance.
Looking for misplaced keys
Hidden phones
Forgotten toys
Extra diapers
Lists and money piled to one side
We dance the morning dance.
Stolen kisses
Double speak
Dinner plans and
Calendar gazes
We dance the morning dance.
Slamming the door
One last kiss
Oops, I forgot…
Full tummies.
Silence.
The morning dance is done.
I wait in the wings,
Stone-cold coffee in my hands,
For my dance to begin.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Sunday, April 02, 2006
While my pretty ones sleep...
Readers 'o' this blog (all three of you), I have been neglecting you. I apologize. It will happen again, though. Never fear....
The end of Daylight Savings Time caught me unawares. Usually the talking heads on the major local news networks remind me, ad infinitum, to spring forward and fall back. In my penchant for removing off-putting local news that is nothing but inflammatory crap devoid of any real news, I have been turning off the telly. Had I been in the car, I probably would have been reminded by the trusty old souls on NPR, with a ten minute story on the history of daylight savings time (I think it was a WWII era invention). Alas, I have not been in a car on my own since Wednesday. Shame for me, good for the gas guzzler and the environment. The reminder is probably on the calendar somewhere, but all of mine still say March.
Things are slow-going at the household, thanks to a back injury on Wednesday. Sparing long and gory details, I zigged when I should have zagged and ended up on the floor, a la 'help, I've fallen and I can't get up!' for more than an hour until help arrived. Too many steroids, muscle relaxers and pain pills later (G-d bless Vicodin), I can now sit, stand, walk and lift non-essentials with minimal pain, as long as I don't bend from the waist or twist. Every day provides more mobility. But damn, if this is what getting old feels like, I don't want to go there.
I'm in laundry up to my ass, dishes up to my elbows, and I've been living off of cheese cubes and whole grain pita. There are worse things, I realize.
My doctor empathetically listed with me when I sat in his chair on Thursday and received the diagnosis. Then he calmly told me that he, a 25 year running veteran, gave it up because of the pounding on his joints. Ack. I still want to run a marathon one day. Getting to the mailbox now feels like a marathon, but in my mind, that doesn't count. I'm exploring the Galloway options--I need to shed a few more pounds to give my back a well deserved break--and I might need to invest in a double jogging stroller so as not to have to work around dh's ever-increasing work schedule. But first I have to heal. Nothing like taking away basic movement that motivates you to get off your ass and want to do something. Gentle stretching, then walking, then....
In the midst of house repair quotes (oh joy!), storage boxes and the like. A move is somehow now imminent. Not far--Columbus or Dayton, me thinks. Still, we have nearly seven years of crap to sort through and store or throw away (I vote for the latter, dh votes for the former). And oodles of baby clothes for both sexes that I'm keeping because we haven't made that final decision on more children yet. I can't fathom it at this point, but you know, seasons change....
And plus, other family members and friends are having children and hopefully will have children in the future. If I can pass along some of the vetements less traveled, I would love to. If not, eventually, some lucky vets group is going to get a heck of a donation.
ds is stirring and will soon need nourishment. dd is asleep in my bed--I don't really want to know when or how she got there. I've no idea, thanks to the power of Vicodin. dh has to leave for work in just over an hour and the three day marathon will begin.
The end of Daylight Savings Time caught me unawares. Usually the talking heads on the major local news networks remind me, ad infinitum, to spring forward and fall back. In my penchant for removing off-putting local news that is nothing but inflammatory crap devoid of any real news, I have been turning off the telly. Had I been in the car, I probably would have been reminded by the trusty old souls on NPR, with a ten minute story on the history of daylight savings time (I think it was a WWII era invention). Alas, I have not been in a car on my own since Wednesday. Shame for me, good for the gas guzzler and the environment. The reminder is probably on the calendar somewhere, but all of mine still say March.
Things are slow-going at the household, thanks to a back injury on Wednesday. Sparing long and gory details, I zigged when I should have zagged and ended up on the floor, a la 'help, I've fallen and I can't get up!' for more than an hour until help arrived. Too many steroids, muscle relaxers and pain pills later (G-d bless Vicodin), I can now sit, stand, walk and lift non-essentials with minimal pain, as long as I don't bend from the waist or twist. Every day provides more mobility. But damn, if this is what getting old feels like, I don't want to go there.
I'm in laundry up to my ass, dishes up to my elbows, and I've been living off of cheese cubes and whole grain pita. There are worse things, I realize.
My doctor empathetically listed with me when I sat in his chair on Thursday and received the diagnosis. Then he calmly told me that he, a 25 year running veteran, gave it up because of the pounding on his joints. Ack. I still want to run a marathon one day. Getting to the mailbox now feels like a marathon, but in my mind, that doesn't count. I'm exploring the Galloway options--I need to shed a few more pounds to give my back a well deserved break--and I might need to invest in a double jogging stroller so as not to have to work around dh's ever-increasing work schedule. But first I have to heal. Nothing like taking away basic movement that motivates you to get off your ass and want to do something. Gentle stretching, then walking, then....
In the midst of house repair quotes (oh joy!), storage boxes and the like. A move is somehow now imminent. Not far--Columbus or Dayton, me thinks. Still, we have nearly seven years of crap to sort through and store or throw away (I vote for the latter, dh votes for the former). And oodles of baby clothes for both sexes that I'm keeping because we haven't made that final decision on more children yet. I can't fathom it at this point, but you know, seasons change....
And plus, other family members and friends are having children and hopefully will have children in the future. If I can pass along some of the vetements less traveled, I would love to. If not, eventually, some lucky vets group is going to get a heck of a donation.
ds is stirring and will soon need nourishment. dd is asleep in my bed--I don't really want to know when or how she got there. I've no idea, thanks to the power of Vicodin. dh has to leave for work in just over an hour and the three day marathon will begin.
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