April 16, 2012

Dear Babies,

I’m a guest blogger today for BuggyLove, a company that makes organic cleaning products for strollers. It’s a real company with a real web site and I was feeling pretty cool about it during this morning’s walk.

Singing Diana Ross, “I’m coming out! I want the world to know!” I had some pep in my step.

Then I bought a pint of coconut ice cream* (*it was 10:18 a.m.). I tossed it in the bottom of our stroller/gypsy wagon. It melted the whole way home…

A friend called to ask for a number and I walked circles around myself looking for my phone. I picked up everything within arm’s reach on our kitchen island, iPads, crumbled paper towels, open packages of deli cheese. What the hell? Then I realized, oh, my PHONE, I’m on it…


These are the moments of motherhood that are hard to describe. The heightened state of mind and worry that wipes out the common levels of functioning and manifests as duuuuh.

Your Aunt Sarit said to me–“you never complain!”–and I said to her matter-of-factly, because I can’t form the sentence to. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I meant it. How can I find the words…

It’s hard to go from our world, our pod, the three of us spinning around each other all day long–cue Inxs, as I also like to sing, “I, I was standing, you were there, two worlds collided, and they could never tear us apart!”– to…

Conversation?


Expressed coherent thoughts?

Yesterday your dad told me how he met John Mayer’s brother last week. Carl.

We were driving but since he’s thrown his back out I was the one behind the wheel. It is a truly torturous experience to drive with your father, babies, I’m warning you now, ranking third on the nightmare scale after going in his closet (the wire hangers! the knotted balls of dry cleaning bags!) and his tool closet (it’s a black hole! he’s a hoarder of outdated electrical equipment!). He shouts things like “LOOK OUT!” “WATCH!” or my favorite, the silent wince, like I am about to crash us into a telephone pole. (Is there a problem? I’ll say. He’ll shake his head and exhale a ridiculously exaggerated sigh of relief, “You drive very close to the right side…”)

This was the state when he turned to me and said, “I met John Mayer’s brother last week. Carl. I think he wrote a song about him…”

Okay?

So I did all this mind could do. In a low breathy drawl I sang, “my brother carl…” like a rusty over-worked muffler spitting out kaput. And then I cracked myself up. Laughing. Cackling. Slapping my own knee. When I came up for air I sang it again. “My brother Carl…” More laughs, laughs, laughs…

“What…is wrong with you?” your dad said.

If I could talk, I’d tell him.

In the meantime, thank god I can write.

Love,

Mom

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