I think I heard them and I think I need to go get them soon. I had a short break, I got them down by 2:00pm, we went to a super fun playdate this morning. After I put them down I came upstairs, planning on writing. But the shelves stared back at me, the low shelves, my anxiety and stress, I need to reduce the danger. I feel like I spend most of my spare time these days putting everything that’s on shelves into boxes behind locked doors. I barely write or paint anymore. I’m constantly locking things away, childproofing, and pulling Jack and Fiona out of sinks. I spend a lot of time thinking about what they’ll get into next. They’re so fast and able. It’s Insane. It’s driving me Insane, I’m always in fight or flight mode. When they are awake I have to constantly be on the move, simultaneously preparing snacks and meals, cleaning up, playing playdough with Fiona, pushing Jack on the swing or turning on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, “Oh Tootles” or is it “Toodles?” “We need to find a mouskatool” How silly. I never watched Mickey Mouse as a little kid, my mom was anti- Disney. I have to admit I’m intrigued by the sick shit, which it really is. Especially the way none of the mouse’s have teeth. And how Minnie and Daisy Duck have eyelashes and big butts, heals, and bloomers sticking out. Did Minnie or Daisy ever have baby ducks? Now I know how moms can become totally absorbed in their children. I said it would never happen to me, that I was strong enough, but sometimes I feel like giving in, just being a mom. It takes so much energy, especially now. I think until they are three. I’ll still write and paint, but I’m not putting myself on a strict schedule for a while, a few months. The babies are awake now. Something happened a few minutes ago. I’m so paranoid, I heard a door screech. I thought there was someone in the house. I got a knife and walked out of the kitchen down the hall quietly holding the knife out like I was in a horror film. I realized it was only the bathroom door that had creaked. It’s a breezy afternoon. Kind of spooky afternoon. I put the knife back and then I started to worry about the knives, what if the babies get to the knives. I started trying to find a practical place to store the knives and nowhere worked. I started to panic before I was able to pull myself away from my own paranoia. It was intense. Now I have to go get them.
Category: be kind to yourself
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I hate weed blowers. It’s 2:00PM Friday afternoon. The house is so quiet and peaceful; I keep saying to myself “PLEASE WEEDBLOWER GUY FINISH FAST!” The babies are down for their nap, I have hummus and chips and a glass of chardonnay sitting on the table beside me. Oh Finally, the weed blower stopped. Quiet again. Beautifully quiet. Ecstatically quiet. Paralyzing quiet. The icing on the cake is the kitchens clean, the toys are picked up, the carpets vacuumed, I even gave Billy a bath and organized the babies book baskets. Some of these things were possible because Linda did a home visit today! She knows how to keep the babies from destroying all my hard work! She knows how to “Manage” them, which is invaluable information for me. Jack and Fiona respect Linda. I practiced “Three Little Monkeys” In sign language with Linda (we do three monkeys instead of five I think to shorten it) Jack and Fiona’s eyes were glued to us, which was interesting because I’ve been practicing and they don’t watch me like that. Maybe because I’m always practicing my sign language, they are probably bored of me fumbling around with my hands, checking my notes.
Earlier, as I sat on the couch I thought to myself, “This is really happening.” I was looking at the clear Tupperware box full of colorful blocks on the fire place mantle. I’m now a person with plastic toys and mickey mouse diapers and organic juice boxes and a white minivan. I’m a mom. When I tell the babies “my name is Jenny, but I’m your mommy” I love how they say “Jenny.” Alan was around one time when Jack called “Jenny” and Alan said, “No, that’s mommy” I said “It’s OK, I told them my name was Jenny but I’m their Mommy and they can call me Jenny and Mommy” Alan didn’t like that, he said they should only call me Mommy. I think it bugs him when kids call their parents by their first names. I feel it is important they know my name is Jenny and that I’m a painter and a writer and a feminist. It’s my identity, and since our whole lives are based on building and maintaining our identity I feel it’s appropriate. They know their names are Jack and Fiona and are learning who they are. Sometimes I forget they’re only two years old, I feel I know them, I feel they know so much. Then I catch myself and say to myself, “They don’t understand a thing you just said.” Then I go back to rolling the play dough out in a flat piece or making a ball. I showed them a comedy clip of Trump and Sanders impersonators, it was so funny, I was laughing so hard, I told the babies those guys are impersonating two guys that are running for president. I told them Trump was a bad guy. I know they didn’t understand it. Linda said it’s good that I explain everything to them though.
The babies will be waking up soon. I feel like taking a bath now but I don’t know if I have time. I also need to make snack and think about dinner. I wish there was more time left to chill. More quiet time. It sounds so good right now. So good.
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It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve written. With an erratic nap schedule, erratic moods, erratic everything, erratic everything, I’ve given myself permission to lay off the S.O.P. and go with the flow of energy, absorbing the mind fatigue like a sponge in milk. Like the sponge I use daily to wipe up all the dirt and grime spread evenly through our house and car like green grass on the spring hills. My insides feeling pressure and pain as I battle like a trooper searching for relaxation, light, time, and a clearing of the fog of drama that has entered my delicate soul. True inconsistences between me and other parts of my world, the big beautiful cluster fuck of reality. But I sit here now within the fire, the burning of my bra, they did it for a reason you know, not just to protest for women’s freedom, but also because bras wrap tight around the ribs, digging in, leaving a red mark, insulating toxins, growing cancer, they knew it was just an extension of the Chasity belt. I’m not playing their games anymore, the games of patriarchy. That is what this comes down to for me, that erratic unease, unrest, dis-satisfaction with the system, with reality. My fight goes way beyond student loan reimbursements, I mean am I gonna get a refund for working full time, putting myself through college, will I get a refund of the money I used from my savings account that I paid for graduate school with? Fuck a phone call buzzing on my stupid IPhone, now my conversation is broken, now I have to check my message. What I’m proposing is a respect for myself. For my practice. I cannot be on-call. I propose a total respect for women. I want all the judgements about people based on their appearances, their dress, to go away. I want people to get off the fucken band wagon and think for themselves, I want the ugliness to go away. I want women to finally be viewed and treated as human, not sex objects, I want women to be able to walk around braless anytime anywhere without it meaning anything, it’s not slutty or dykey, or trashy. It’s our body. The only reason that our bodies are looked at in this way is because of advertisement, brainwashing, Barbie’s, look at what the world has done to women. We’ve been used and now we are paying for it. The bra has to go. Only wear during exercise when you don’t want jumping squirrels in your tops. It’s bullshit.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 