April 05, 2009
i want kids with safety bricks

It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm bemused to report that I've spent nearly all the weekend lying down. Again. I'm of the fidgety sort, the kind who can't choose to spend the day in bed. Even if I'm sick, I still shift around, move rooms, etc. So when I have the chance to stay in bed, and I seem to want to sleep an inordinate amount, I trust that natural restlessness to get me out sooner or later. This backfired (?) yesterday, when I went to bed at 9 on Friday and got out of bed at 2:30 on Saturday. And of course, this surfeit of sleep didn't refresh me so much as set the tone for a day of lying down. It was pretty much a full day of feeling weak, nauseous & bored, although there were bright spots. Mason spent part of the day cleaning the basement, a task I've admitted as hopeless for months. Also, he traveled a great distance for burritos and cupcakes for our supper. I just wish I'd felt better, or even recovering. Stacy prefers the term "cocooning" to "hiding," as the implication is of renewal or regeneration. I'm still waiting for my wings to unfurl.

It seems unfair that my lax publishing schedule should leave everyone with the impression that Blake has been an unrelenting torment for weeks (unlike my stomach, which truly has). His return from his March Break visit to Casa Nova was rocky, but his anger has smoothed out. I'd like to believe that the root of this improvement is because I'm going out of my way in the mornings to snuggle with him, going to him because he's too knackered to come to me (and this from the boy who saved me from setting an alarm clock for the first two years of my return to the working world, a kid we had to bargain with if we wanted to sleep past 5 a.m.). But I'm afraid that the real reason may be that my dad has begun to supply Blake with the Lego sets he misses from his father. (If my dad wants to compete, he's going to lose. Not only does the Boy have a head start, but his parents have started to get in on the act, while I refuse to participate.)

(On a bitter little tangent…I feel a little ripped off that Blake comes home from weekends away with story after story of museum, play centre, fast food restaurant and family visits; not because I begrudge Blake an afternoon of doing something other than playing outside while his mother reclines weakly on the couch (cough*cough), but because the last few years of life with the Boy were an endless wave of resentment whenever he was asked to leave the house on weekends. I had to plan everything if we were to do anything; the fact that he is suddenly able to initiate and follow through on something other than sitting at a computer screen makes me feel a little ripped off. But my bitterness, as with many other things, is more about me than the Blake.)

The point, as was lost somewhere, is that Blake is doing better than he was, and therefore I am doing better than I was. Except that I can't get off the couch, I'm pleased.

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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*