Friday, May 7, 2010


I'm not going to lie, this has been an impressively tumultuous week.
And the current state of my brain could be accurately described as melted butter without a container.

We had a sewage flood in our basement on Sunday night.
--They call it 'black water.' Our house took on 'black water' like a vulnerable ship at sea.--
And between the plumber, the (shockingly thorough and helpful) cleaning/drying/demolition guys and the asbestos lady, today was the first day we did not have extra people spilling out of our house. The first day without drying machines and their blaring harmonies of white noise.
This week, I spent many of Opal's naptimes walking with her in the sling to help induce at least a little rest and to give me a much-desired pause. And as for the naptimes with no demolition crew or extra company, the noise remained, and I found it impossible to do much more than the absolute essentials followed by spilling myself onto the couch like something that might leave a stain and didn't care.
When they finally pulled the plugs on all the blowers yesterday, the silence was ear-splitting, our finished basement was a distant memory and I felt leg-less and somewhat baffled, grasping for some slippery semblance of the same routine I often want to pull away from.

Enter blog, stage right.

At this point, it really doesn't matter so much what I write.

Doodlebug is down for a nap and the simple act of placing a small pillow on the kitchen chair (which, without assistance, is about as comfortable as a cutting board), pouring myself a choice beverage to accompany the time of day and opening up my computer (noticing the fingerprints like scuffs on good shoes but rarely doing something about them) is calming in and of itself.

Bare feet against the soft, warn kitchen rug, hips just gently keeping time to the radio's pulse of world music, the smell of steamed sweet potatoes, freshly pureed for Opal's lunch for when she wakes.
With my new machine, it's effortless to create silken pudding the most eye-shattering shade of orange that will undoubtedly speckle and splatter all that lies within a 3-feet radius of her high chair. (Little Polluck in training.)
And in the midst of the feed-the-baby, catch-the-spoon, keep-it-interesting dance, I will forget entirely about the rest of it. The rebuilding, the price-tags and the uncooperative insurance people will simply dissolve.

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