Rainy Day

 I am supposed to be working, Succotash, but I am so tired. Even though we both slept well last night. It was actually kind of wonderful, now that the AC actually works up there, to be almost cold and cuddle up with you under the comforter. I can still clearly conjure the sensation of your tiny baby feet pressing under this one rib on my right side, and I enjoy feeling your growing toddler feet kneading me in a similar way as you sleep. Sometimes your eyelashes flutter against my neck as you dream.

So it's time for me to turn my attention to the next book. Past time, really. And if I were good I would also turn my attention back to your baby book, which was so unceremoniously cut off when we fled the pandemic. I want to write in it about what happened, and fill back in all the milestones that I have been tracking for you on this blog. Who knows what will happen to this blog, after all, though I am hoping your father might print it up for our bookshelf as he did with Incremental Degrees. I know I'm going to devote all of September to caring for you, and shepherding our move back to the big city. I am anxious about it, though I have no idea why. I'm afraid you won't like the change, but given how beautifully you have been doing in your new toddler classroom it's entirely possible that I don't give you enough credit for being adaptable and curious about new experiences. I'm sure the anxiety is all mine. But anxious I am.

You said many new things this weekend - Gingee (Aunt Ginger), "front pocket" for your overalls, "tree." I'm starting to lose count, which is pretty exciting. "Pool," "big board." You want sailing again, and it went mostly well, with only some meltdown in the last fifteen minutes or so. You had much more fun at the pool. 

So. Why am I having so much angst about working today? I'm reading a primary source, and I'm thinking, and fretting. Perhaps I've forgotten that this is just my process. I think and fret for a long time and then there's a flurry of productivity. And I guess if the manuscript is late, then it's late. We shall see.

Mainly I feel poised on the edge of a precipice, anxious about moving forward, afraid of the sound of wind in my ears as I fall, with my arms around you trying to keep you safe.