as to my silence of late
Brief update: last Wednesday at Lettuce = bad; last weekend = worse; this week = much better. We had a therapy session on Thursday, and when I got over feeling bad (which apparently is a very common to this kind of therapy), I realized that I needed to take action. The problem is that the Boy, for obvious reasons, doesn't like it when I broadcast our problems in this medium. He's tried to be noble about it and avoid "censoring" me (his word), but the truth is that it hurts him, and thus makes reconciliation that much harder to reach. He's got to trust me and feel safe with me and if that means not writing about our issues here than that's what it means. I'm a big girl. I'm not under any illusion that I'm writing a complete and accurate account of my life. It doesn't actually hurt me to avoid this as a topic, because it doesn't mean that I have to bottle up my pain.
This brings me to my second point, which is that the whole reason I was writing about our struggles is to a) achieve some kind of catharsis and b) reach a sympathetic ear. But I don't have to do that online. So if you know me and want to keep in the loop, please call me. I hardly ever get phone calls any more and I would love to talk to people face to face as schedules permit. I accept the fact that I shouldn't be standing on a soapbox, broadcasting my pain to the wide world; we both wholeheartedly accept the fact that I need to talk to people who care about me. If that's you, feel free to keep letting me know that, privately.
Speaking of keeping in the loop, last night was October's Edition of Drunken Knitting. I enjoyed myself immensely, as I got to hog baby Zoë to an extreme that almost mimicked having a 5-weeker myself. Mason & I were both completely infatuated with her, and we spent almost all of our time with her singing songs, making faces, talking in silly voices and telling her how wonderful she is. It was so good to feel that uncomplicated love that flows out of me when I'm around a tiny baby; for one, two, three minutes while Mason was singing "Dream" to her, everything was perfect.
Between Zoë and drinking and a sudden attack of the sneezes and the inevitable gossiping, I once again put in a somewhat pathetic performance on the knitting front. Oh well. I think it's a magnificent victory that knitting, the task I use to keep me awake at most gatherings (business or social) would be the least important aspect of my socializing with fellow knitters. There's something pithy in that which is eluding me at the moment. All I know is that knitters, knitting, knitty conversations, yarn, and little babies swathed in knitwear make me incredibly happy, without making me want to knit another stitch on my own account.
Blake has reached a saturation point in his school. We've passed the stage at which he's adjusting to the routine (a stage characterized by not eating lunch, making messes in the bathroom and distracting others during work time) and passed into the sponge stage. Last week the Boy & I were poking around on the computers in our study when we heard odd noises from his bedroom nextdoor. I crept around the door and found him playing with his toys and SINGING THE NATIONAL ANTHEM to himself. All of it. Phonetically in some places, but all the way from "O Canada" to the final "stand on guard for thee." I was amazed. I'm still amazed when I remember it.
The other thing he's taken to recently is la langue française. His ear for words and his early experiences reading French books have heterodyned to create a boy who can count to five and identify key Hallowe'en figures en français. I couldn't be more proud if he'd started ordering his own poutine.
blake & the boy with a tiny accordion that used to belong to my uncle roy and has lived in my grandmother's basement for decades.
we seem to find them wherever we go.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*