I guess it’s time for some sort of year in reflection. 2019 is tomorrow. I don’t like the idea of looking back and wishing things were different...
(I do wish I hadn’t had that chicken noodle soup for lunch that is now wreaking revenge on my bunghole and keeping me home on this “holiday”)
Maybe not different, but looking back as to what went wrong in some fake analysis, veiled hope that I might learn from it or do something different next time, if there is a next time. There’s a couple of pressing thoughts, a couple of thentheresthat’s that keep recirculating in my head. I don’t know if that means they’re important or if it means that I am shallow, readable, operating on some level of surfaceness.
I keep thinking about how this was the first year in a long time nobody held me. Granted, I did a lot of holding. Still holding. Holding this teething fever into the new year holding...
No one held me.
What a sad thing that is.
What a sad statement. It creates a chill in me and my brain nips are erect and trembling. I don’t enjoy this vulnerability. Especially when I feel vulnerable for two.
I’m a creature built for companionship.
I love deeply.
I find joy in acts of service.
I will bend the sky so my love can be the stars.
This is the first year I’ve bent it for ourselves, I bought warmer sheets so we are less cold at night.
I are now we.
I reinvented my purpose while grounding all the egos of my nature.
I held myself upright.
I held myself accountable.
I held up up my part of the deal.
I held space.
I held the door open.
But I keep thinking about arms and warm and how fucking cold it is outside.
And then I think about how alla this is prolly just weaning hormones and the boiling fact that haven’t had sex in over a year while the ghosts of wangs past are all around and haunting.
I’m really grateful that the goals are aligning, that’s my other thought. Grateful that my family has their health and togetherness. I’m grateful for this rickety roof sheltering all of us. I’ve been able to really manifest a future for myself with my daughter.
Starting, well, starting tomorrow I guess.
In 2019 I will be teaching “Caretake and Me” painting classes at the Lucky Childe. The Lucky Childe is a new, amazing, family centric, all inclusive café where your kids can play and eat good food and hang out and do homework. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I’m excited to put some of my momentum behind the place.
This year I’ve also pitched a program to the Nevada Museum of Art—Stroller tours. One day, two days, three mornings—whatever it turns out to be, pack up your kiddo and meet me at the museum and will go on a kid friendly tour of the artwork. I’m hoping it really takes off and I’m excited to partner with such a respectable organization.
My dream of getting to take my child to work is slowly coming true. Creating my own future, independent. I might not be held by anyone, but at least I’m not being held back.
It’s been a transitional year for people around me as well. My moms health, my brothers happiness, my dad’s retirement. Friends, too. Friends that once played a large role in my life have withdrawn since I’ve had a child. I think there’s truth to that myth... that rumor? That saying? that once you have a child your childfree friends taper off. Moms make new friends with similar alignments to cope with the isolation.
We’re just trees in two separate forests now. Trees trying to break through the crown with no hard feelings because every tree needs the light.
And then there’s my lil seedling, sapling, sweet lil bundle.
You know how I know I love you? I let you have the carrots from my chicken noodle soup. Best bites. Always.
You know I know I love you? You take a shit and I feel relief.
You know how I know I love you?
I vacuum daily.
I chew when you chew.
I’ve willingly tasted your spit just to be kissed by you.
I make your food for every meal.
i feel it when I hold you and can’t stop feeling it when you aren’t near.
I tolerate the idiocy of *ahem* because I want you to be able draw your own conclusions.
You came out of my body this year, into my heart last. Our souls are on a path together and I’m in awe of your fearlessness, curiosity, softness, and humanity.
And your amazing JLo booty that I know didn’t come from my genes.
Heres to wishing together, walking together, laughing, and holding.
Cheers to my kin.
My better half.
The precious sweet potato, Nugglebuns Beeble, DottyMo Rey Go made of star stuff.
The first thing I do when I find myself obligated-ly (I made that word up) baby free... is take 4 ibuprofen. It's good for the swelling and back aches that come along with lugging around a 19.5lb, 30 inch long Nugget of Love around. The Doc prescribed 800mg motrin for postpartum recovery and in my adrenaline haze of ''holy shit baby here'' sleep deprivation rush, I never filled it.
It'd be nice to have, is all.
One pill to rule them all.
I recommend a light self-medication of the same--whether it be weed or anti-inflammatory meds, it helps in the release of bodily tension everywhere. Marijuana is especially helpful in the shifting of mental gears for some. For me? It just makes me anxietal as FUCK.
The next thing I like to do is start laundry.
In the name of multitask, wash them sheets, girl. Those baby-weaning night sweats are upon us and they ain't pretty. They're chilly and hot at the same time with cold, clammy toes and bad hair. Don't forget to collect baby socks from every corner of the house and be sure to look under couch and chair. Oh, and bib collection. The really gnarly ones that have blueberry and yogurt all mashed into the fabric. And things that may or may not have touched poop are also very important to wash. Poop likes to hide. Poop has poop spores that float and attach... be thorough.
After the laundry is sorted and domination of the machines is expressed, order is claimed.... run the bath.
Run it hot.
Think of all those showers you've taken in the last week with your Nugget. She gets the warm water droplets dribbled on her, not you. She gets the toys and the giggles. You... you just kind of crouch into a ball in the cold, half wet back of the shower awkwardly hovering like a security guard making sure things are safe and stay safe and safe.
Add bubbles to that bath. The ones you bought for you nephew but you secretly love.
Yeah, those ones.
Not those intense bath bomb things that have glitter and odor and feel like overkill. The only chemical reaction I want to have happen in the tub is cognitive calm brain trance release.
Mr. Bubble baby bubbles, actually.
Grab that book you've been ''reading'' for over a year. The one that has nothing to do with parenting, self help, communication, child psychology, language and linguistics, things you can't afford, or cartoons. You know the one. Grab this book and open the blinds to let that winter sunshine in.
Once you're in, don't forget to look down and see beauty.
Remember how amazing the female body is and how our vaginas and lady organs are like re-built engines. Remember to thank your colon for finding it's parking spot again. Remember to thank your body for creating life. Massage your scars in every direction. Still. Always. Put your ears under the water and remember when we had two heartbeats, two separate pulses and one set of lungs.
After the bath, pluck those fucking chin hairs.
No one is going to tell you about them, so do your face homework.
Put on your big girl panties.
Don't forget your lashes/lipstick/whateverthefuckmakesyoufeelputtogetherandsexy
Change over the laundry.
Make a list of all the adulting you have to do:
And attack the day.
Mallory Kate is a blogger, artist, single mom and funny girl outta Nevada.
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