Time has been flying by. My munchkin, who is currently kicking on my lap and attempting to add extra consonants and vowels to my words, is now seven months old. Seven! She stares out the window at the fuchsia and white bundles on the spiraea shrubs and blows raspberries, spraying baby spittle all over my shiny screen. This gas-expelling ball of energy is happy as can be, too. Usually. When she isn’t, for whatever reason, her temper turns on like an unexpected spring storm and dissipates just as quickly. All I have to do is humiliate myself by singing and making silly faces. Again, usually.
Miss Maya has been entertaining herself for up to fifteen whopping minute at a time, which gives me slightly more time to tap out words on the keyboard. Glory be! Only now she’s crawling all over the place, so I can’t let my attention stray far from her during her waking hours. Random chunks of time aren’t exactly ideal for writing, but I take it when I can get it. Like when she drifts off to dream.
These past two months have been laden with unexpected confessions- disappointing revelations that fracture your soul. I honestly don’t know how… oh, nevermind. I could go on forever about it and never understand any of it.
I just want to move on past it now and enjoy these two lovely creatures in my life.