There's nothing worse than being addressed by multiple beings at once, talking and meowing over each other to win the competition for my attention and energy. Sometimes I wish I had a big bubble space helmet. Inside it would be silence, or maybe peaceful music. When I put it on, I'd only see everybody's lips moving and their hands gesticulating wildly, but I wouldn't be able to hear a word they say. I could just smile serenely for 10 minutes, raise an eyebrow as if to say, "Yes, I know, I know, you want me to do something, but, you see, I'm wearing this helmet right now. Nothing but silence in here, so you'll just have to wait." Then deal with them after the centering lull.
Without the bubble, ignoring the din only serves to elevate the volume.
I'm sure Hub feels this way too, by the way. I know that when I get frazzled, I'm quick to cast some live duty into his arms. That's the way it is with partners.
***
In any case, I have a few minutes to myself this evening. Hub is still at a superbowl party that Elsie and I left early. She is sound asleep. She took it very well, the forgetting of her babies, Bimi and Lucia, at the party. I promised her that Daddy would sneak them into her room while she slept.
She is doing so much these days. We've had another one of those gigantic leaps of development lately. If the name Lucia sounds familiar around here, it's with good reason. That name was my running first choice for Laurel before everything went up in smoke. I haven't spoken it in over 8 months. Elsie pulled it out of nowhere the other day, bestowing it upon a soft pink elephant she brings to bed every night. That is part of this developmental leap, as are constant storytelling, song-singing, role-playing and a much more grown-up style of conversation.
The change that really knocked me off my feet came last week, when I introduced her to chalk pastels. Elsie loves to draw and paint. She usually creates beautiful abstractions, like a red and yellow sunburst self portrait, or a tall blue pillar that is her dad as a parrot (with a snowman hat and one mouth).
"I'm drawing a wiggly person." She informed me. "With a head and two eyes and a hat."
I looked over, and there it was. A wiggly person, with a head and two eyes, and a hat. Hot damn. Just like that.
***
Hub and I did talk again this weekend. The common wisdom is that that's what we're supposed to do, keep the lines of communication open. Share with each other. Talk.
All that common wisdom would be really great if I had married myself. But I didn't marry myself, nor anyone remotely like myself. That's the beauty of it, and also the challenge of it. I love being married to the patient one, solid and predictable and immune to my intense moods. I love being paired to someone who can always find his keys and his cellphone, and can help me find mine when it has somehow ended up in a bag of cilantro in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. (True story) I love being married to someone whom I trust to take over when I am absolutely at the end of my rope with a completely exhausted and exhausting child. He will not snap at her the way I might.
I want to pull my hair out when I need to understand him, because we work so completely differently and he really, truly, does not talk.
A serious talk with Hub never feels like it's going well. It's never pleasant, and never a relief. If we argue, he moves on immediately, and I stew on it for days. At least this time it wasn't a complete stalemate.
I can't tell you what Hub took away from it. I so often get it wrong when I try to guess what he's thinking. I feel that I made my point, though, about loving and respecting him, and still needing to process my own way. About wanting respect in my journey, especially when it is different than his.
Here's what I took away from it: I haven't been using all my tools to keep myself healthy lately (mentally). Hub is worried about me, and he has a few good suggestions. I have shirked on my exercise lately. I should get back into it. Distraction might be good for me. I could use a hobby. One that requires a lot of attention.
I'm thinking about art. I used to do it all the time, back when I was a kid, before I got all hung up on doing everything perfectly. There was something joyful and intensely focusing about it. I could use more of that.
***
I'm a little jealous of my daughter. Open a box of crayons and she digs right in. No hesitation. She scribbles intently, embodying great care and freedom all at once. Then she steps back and shows me her work. "This is a monster falling over, mom!" And it is a monster falling over. Ask her three months from now to tell you about that painting, and she will tell you all about that monster falling over. "He's smiling, because he's a silly monster, and he's falling over."
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