I'm in the middle of writing a piece that draws a rather odd parallel, a metaphor I doubt many others will see. I wonder what that means about me, as a writer, that I can acknowledge this without worrying much about it? Perhaps I've gotten a bit cockier than I should. It's just that I really like this idea, and I think, without the metaphor coming to the fore, the poem has its own merit, enough to be what it is on its surface.
Unfortunately, the ending is giving me a fit, so we'll see what we see.
I just got home from an orthodontist appointment with Kassi. It's been far longer than it should have been since her last visit, but they cancelled the last one and we couldn't seem to get a hold of them to reschedule. No one would answer the phone or return phone calls when we left a message. When we arrived this morning, they have revamped their entire system and lost one of my favorite receptionists. I don't know if she left and that's what caused the problems or if her not performing her duties caused the problems that precipitated her leaving...
It doesn't really matter, I dislike this office set up, dislike the personnel, dislike the drive up there (45 minutes in Charlotte traffic) and the orthodontist himself, sweet as he is, is wearing this as an excuse to continue going there.
I have an appointment for myself tomorrow. I'm sorry that I'm not the more warm-fuzzy type who looks forward to these things, what with fetal heart beat monitors and sweet-smiley nurses, but I dread them. Every visit is more and more like a trip to the orthodontist, only a much shorter drive. Maybe it's because the due date is looming larger and larger, sneaking into my near future, rather than my distant future. Only 9 weeks and a day to go to the projected date of arrival, however reliable (or not) that is, and I'll freely admit that I'm terrified. The concept of labor and deliver ties my intestines in knots, and the idea of another newborn, well, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure my conscious mind has accepted that as fact.
Silly, some women reach my age and haven't had any children yet, they ache to get started, tick-tock-tick-tock and all that. Me? I thought for sure that by now I'd be done with this pregnancy bit.
The kids are all in a year-round school, which means that every nine weeks they get out for 2 - 3 weeks. They've been out for what, today anyway, seems like an eternity. I love my kids, I love spending time with them and doing stuff and going places. Most of the best moments of my life have been the spontaneous accidental moments that happened without any planning or expectations, you know? But after a few weeks of 24/7, I honestly just need them to go back to the nice reliable school routine. I feel that way more often lately - I guess I just need more alone time, as if there's any such thing when you're incubating the youngest, and it finds it necessary to remind you of its presence every, oh I dunno, 2.6 seconds.
To be completely truthful, I'm exhausted, I feel like every waking moment of my life is spent doing for someone else, and considering I sleep an average of 3 hours a night, that's a lot of doing. I know, it isn't going to get easier, I'm no dummy, and I've been through it a time or 2 before, but - sigh - I'm just tired is all.
So there's Wednesday in a pair of strappy sandles. Happy LOST watching to all, and to all a good night. I have shit to do that I don't feel like bothering with (grocery shopping, dinner making, laundry folding - how I wish the word 'nap were in there somewhere) to start and finish before my one and only vice comes on later.