Last night the Boy & I sat down & banged out 18 thank-you cards to attendees at Blake's baptism. I always resent the task of writing thank-you cards; I always sulk & procrastinate as much as possible. But I love the feeling that comes at the end of the night, the feeling of having written ten or twenty or two excellent thank-you's. I don't know, maybe I'm being vainglorious, but I'm really happy with my skill at the ancient art of the polite card. I used to hate the afternoon after Christmas when my mom would sit us down & make us write thank-you cards, but now I'm glad she cracked the whip. Now I can turn out one lovely piece of writing to satisfy the cattiest of aunts, and it's all because my mother was stern and a wee bit old-fashioned.

It also helped that we drank beer & listened to Ron Sexsmith while we wrote. And that we split the task down the middle, so I didn't feel unjustly put-upon. The Boy, for his part, hates writing the cards, but loves the praise he gets afterwards. Everyone wins.

Excellent morning; although our night was a little wild with the frequent wakings (bye bye peak experience, welcome back fatigue), I got some sleep when the Boy took Blake out of the bedroom at 6 and returned to tuck him in at 7:15. Both Blake & I woke up for good at 9, and spent our morning singing, eating, playing & talking. At 10 I strapped him in the Trekker, slung my Acadia backpack on my back, put hats on us both, and headed out to get vegetables. It takes about a half-hour to get to the grocery store, so to a lazy girl like me just getting there is an adventure. I came home with an over-full backpack of fruits & veggies (for homemade babyfood), the boo sleeping in front of me. Walking home was a wonderful feeling – burdened, working hard, but not strained & sore. I felt strong, like a primate walking the plains with her baby & her harvest.

I know, that's weird. Well, I had to think about something other than my posture. Feeling superior to everything else on the planet isn't as distracting as you might think.

A big day passed us by this weekend: on Sunday Poet & Marcie welcomed their baby girl. I'd love to show you the photo that Dirk forwarded to me (I wasn't on the original list, it seems), but the internet being what it is, that's probably not such a hot idea.

I have to admit, I'm a little miffed that I didn't find out first-hand. Dirk called this afternoon to gripe (again) about Poet's decision to miss Preacher's wedding, and I played the peacemaker.

"Look: you're going to sleep in and miss things. Preacher's going to say mean things that he shouldn't. And Poet is going to flake out on important events. That's what makes you who you are. They're your Achilles heels."

Even so, blah. I wish I'd been on that first list.

It's funny. I looked at the birth announcement today and thought mostly about Blake. I wondered how tired they are right now, and if Marcie's doing alright with breastfeeding. I wondered how the labour went, and if the hospital was a good one. I made jokes to myself about future betrothals, of joining the Angels in the second generation. But the one thing I didn't do is put my face behind the baby's. Even when I was mad for Poet, I never imagined being married to him or having his babies.

I guess I was looking for some trace of the old pain, but it's finally all gone. God bless this little girl, and may she always be free of the claims of the past.

I should go to sleep now & conserve my strength for tomorrow. Blake is sick – he's had a runny nose all day and demands to be held without ceasing. He's only spent a very little time exploring the world of the floor, and his co-ordination is off so that he's been bumping his head & bloodying his face. He spent a good half-hour crying in my arms this afternoon when the breast, the soother, the walking & the singing failed to comfort him. It's very unlike him to be so intractable, and that bothers me more than the illness.

Poor little muffin.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 8/31/2004 09:32:00 p.m.