Happy Conception Day to Chaya.
Happy Conception Day to Chaya.
Happy Conception Day to Chaya... we're gonna gross you out when you're a teen!
November 22nd is the likely date of Miss Thing's Conception. Which I know because that's what medical science is good for. Like this is why ART exists. So I can mortify my child by saying: "Oh sweetie, how were you made? Well, after making me promise to think real hard about reduction surgery if I got preggers with multiples, the doctor gave me the go ahead to inject this giant ovidrel shot into my belly after a month and a half of HCG shots also in my belly, and hon' Mittleschmerz is dang real and this was pretty emotional stuff, BUT hormones. So many hormones...And then mommy and daddy... oh we made a Miracle, baby... And also you were conceived."
I dunno. If you get cake for being born, what do you get for being conceived? Brownie? Tart?
But before we practice mortifying Chaya with tales of hormone-induced wildness, we'll keep her chugging along in preschool and being-at-work-being-a-flying-butterfly-cat. She's got her own agenda.
Like Shabbat Dance Party!! Chaya is so down with her Jewish heritage. Turns out her imaginary snake, Snake, is Jewish too. Neat synergy there. Christianity cannot compete with friggin' dinosaurs and Episcopal mommy is spiritually permeable enough that she's just bummed that they don't have dinosaurs for the adult Shabbat services. Some of the scarier versions of Christianity have some kickin' kids' rock parties, but they're usually pretty born-again-adjacent. Reform Judaism for the win.
How else have I been? Having fun trying to figure out all new doctors and fun like that.
I've got folks of the boomer persuasion going on in head-shaking terms about my Millennial oversharing for including a selfie of me with a tube down my nose from last year's fun medical testing. So, anything further would be such explosive TMI that it may just crash the entire Social Security network and nuke every episode of NCIS ever made. You're right, you're right. There are limits. So you know, just lemme know if you're curious why I'm in a particularly grumpy mood this week, and I'll point it out for you on one of those therapy dolls they use with kids.
In the typical medical hijinx, it was mistaken for something it was not, even though it was tested as not-that. Which wouldn't be a problem except I'm so darned sensitive to things that the prescription for what-it-wasn't was very irritating and made everything significantly worse until I decided f-that and stopped torturing myself. So... that's how my weekend's been. But it's on the uptickish, since then.
As always it's little annoyances like this that glints the gratitude. My dearest hubba has been awesome: handling Chaya duty last-minute for various long-running and rescheduled doctors visits, randomly replacing my broken watch band just because (probably not related to the above, but timed in that arena), and generally being cool about the occasional flares of additional moodiness. And my friends? Man, but man, I've got some whose faintest concern is like a sitz bath in aloe and a shot of something highly scheduled. And my child? um. She's a divine terror and is amping up her chaos with newer and cleverer forms of "independence" and "assertiveness". But the cuteness in between tantrums at mommy or daddy for not drawing a doggy quite to expectations is epic. "Chaya, no, do NOT throw that. Not THAT. Alright. That's it, it looks like it's time for us to leave the table... awwwww... you are so cute rolling around the floor in your own drool hearts... but seriously time out."
In other news... We went to the ballet on Sunday - all local all premieres - which was indeed diverting and touching and all those things one wishes of a good date afternoon.
Aaaand. Our house totally closed and now we've got a massive down payment chunk o'change to blow on ... well a new house some day. In a while.
So on whole: Things are thumbs-up worthy and I've got my things to sing about.
SO here, reader. Something. Something. For you.
I Didn't Write You A Poem
Exactly
That elegant ink-blot line between cliche
and poetry/art/zesty-slice-o-humanity.
isn't mine to sploink just so.
I feel like you. You, like me.
(I like you! You like me!)
Literal words are anything but:
Sometimes personal syntax diverges just so
To take the same thought and toss it
to opposing corners of the page.
In wordy words, we don't always see eye to eye
(maybe if you slouch and I tippy toe?)
But in metaphor, the same few suns burn bright
The same stars shoot across glowing skies, and splash
in an undulating ocean of "heard it, felt it, all before"
Our collective lives are some small klatsch
of story and simile sewn up with quirk.
It's beyond me to add a striking twist to the tropes
But any plug of irony gives way to a flow of awe.
A need to drown in creation and cast reflection
This sacred lure to commemorate, to consecrate.
Because "wow"
Just... ... damn.
And wow again.
So what if we're boring
in our recursive ecstasies?
Ecstasies
Objectively, meh.
Subjectively...
...daaaaaamn.
I feel so hopeless; happily helpless
Doubled in doubt but hey here's the faith.
For you, I'll repaint the world by number
Soaring high with each blah brush-stroke
So let me lob eternities against
some snickering canvas:
Butterflies bee-booping in bellies
Universes big-banging in moon-sparkled seas
Heaven. Earth. And everything in between.
I want to hurl every bright cliche
in brilliant explosions, screaming HOLY HAI!!!
I'll squeeze my heart like a bandoneon,
Pluck my soul like a deep double-bass
my breath a tuba ooompa-ing mmmmmm
My blood cha-cha-cha-ing from head to toe
Drizzled over with gustatory delectation:
Sunsets spiced with cumin and coriander,
Full mango moons behind clouds of mousse
Sighs of cardamom and starfruit spritzes;
vanilla bourbon breath and shy caramel glances,
and - pop fizz - champagne blood
effervescing though feasts of feels.
Giggles, hurtles, gasps, whirlwinds and whirlpools...
I'll try them all, and feel them all too.
Less self-conscious with each fluttering sec
Zealously blitzkrieging words with Bacchanalian abandon
So old. But to me, it'll feel brand new.
Because my autumn age feels first-bud-of spring.
And old feels fresh. And new feels ancient.
And it's all the same and it's all unique.
With newborn fervor I pummel the page
with tropes that predate history.
Themes worn thin and done no favors
by my grubby fingers' flubbing scrunches.
But every second is its own. All sensation an infant gasp.
No river can be crossed twice. But millions of times I'll cross.
Every river.
Every time
To reach you.
Towards you, I'll Salt-bae sprinkle
Teeny snowflakes of sentiment
each hoping - in all the flurry -
to land just-so on your outstretched palm.
For you, with your melting warmth,
to find the beauty. To give the meaning.
Like you always do .
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