(with an a),
Being pregnant is like being a teenager: your boobs get really big; you can’t have wine with dinner; you don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and your idea of a really good time is hitting the bagel shop and ordering extra cream cheese.
It’s been a year since I started this thing, and I haven’t even posted a photo of a winged plastic man hanging off the side of the building or told the story of the woman who used to work at the Diner in Norman and how she had her own wings made of feathers and chewing gum and tinfoil; I haven’t mentioned that when I was little I wanted a tail; I haven’t told you that I’m feeling a little blue today or that it’s raining (again) or that sometimes I feel guilty for what I have; I haven’t said I’m sorry; I haven’t gone really crazy and abandoned punctuation OR USED ALL CAPS or gone a week without writing anything or decided to take a really friggin’ long walk instead of staring at the screen; I haven’t mentioned that I’m sometimes scared I’ll just become some half-rate blogger and never publish any of my other stuff or that there are days when I just wanna stand at the sink eating chips and french onion dip in a blind daze; I haven’t had any onscreen breakdowns or documented how to make a daisy chain or told you how when I was young I always thought I’d be a single mother and how now I’m a little like, whoa…love, whoa…marriage, whoa…baby, whoa…life, whoaaaaa is this pretty-little-oh-so-pretty thing my life? Whoa.But it is. And even if I’m feeling a little sad today and enjoying staring out at the rain a little too much, I want to thank you for reading: so, thank you. And thanks pappy, too, for giving me this here blue pitcher all those years ago for my birthday and for getting me to start this thing last year, and now today, for my brand spanking new banner. This past year’s been such a trip to Coney Island, I can hardly imagine what the next year will hold.
My favorite time of day is when the sun’s just rising. It reminds me of low voices, cars being warmed up, gravel roads. There was a stretch of time when I was young that my mom had to work so early in the mornings she’d drop me off at school well before it was open. I remember sitting in the breezeway and reading my book, how peaceful it was.
The world seemed to break a little when the guard finally arrived with all those keys to unlock the heavy chain that hung from the door. By the time a handful of other students wandered in to sit in the cafeteria light and dip our plastic spoons in plastic bowls, it seemed another world entirely.
birds chirped; the man arrived with flowers (daisies); there was indeed enough strawberry jam(!) at the bottom of the jar to sweeten up the sandwich, but then suddenly…an avalanche of essays. The woman was buried. She suspected it might be a very long time before she could again breathe without the impediment of a semicolon.
Sitting on the stoop this morning, I watched father after father sneak by with deli flowers. Their wives, I’m guessing, were still sleeping. Hey, I wanted to yell, I’m a mother too!!!
But I guess I’m not quite yet or I am quite yet or what I am a mother to is quite small: the size of a plum. I’m a mother to something the size of a plum, and I already love it more than I ever imagined loving.
By the time I went to grab milk, the deli had nearly been emptied of its flowers; surely there are more where those came from. Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers (Hi mom!) out there. Enjoy this year’s flowers because–come next year–I’ll be vying for my share of corner store lilies.