Blackbird..

Taking a bit of a break from cleaning. Cat in my lap, dregs of diet coke by my side, smallish blackbird flirting shyly with me in the windowbox planter as she sifts through the remains of the cocoa mat liner. 

So disappointed with Congress…yet again. What is so hard with expanding back ground checks for those who insist on buying assault weapons? Seems most of the USA agrees with me. It will be good to get most of these yahoos out of office as quick as possible. No wonder nothing gets done politically! 

I did a lot of the bigger cleaning today such as cleaning out the fridge, wiping everything down, organizing stuff for the weekend. My daughter and her husband plan on coming down and staying with the boys while Frank and I go away for the weekend…Our first weekend away together since the boys were born. We’re also taking back the damn wrong size cooktop. I called ahead of time to make sure it will still be accepted back. The salesperson I talked to assured me it would be. Prob I should’ve gotten his name..

The blackbird alights from time to time to gather more cocoa fibers in her beak. She looks like she’s wearing a fake mustache at times! She stares at me and cocks her head as if she’s curious what I’m writing about.

I’ve been trading Facebook messages with Cam’s biologic donor lady. She’s not his mother. I am. I can’t call her that. Sometimes I wish we’d insisted on a more anonymous relationship with them. At times I feel panicky at her comments and her barrage of photos. I feel via Facebook, even if she doesn’t mean it, I’ve gotten to know her too well. I like her mostly but not all the way. She takes too much credit for C sometimes…his looks..his mannerisms..even what and how much he eats! I wonder if she ever regrets letting me adopt her embryo. I used to staunchly be in the "tell" camp but lately not so sure. Oh I will of course tell him.  Just today C got up from his nap and was sitting by me on the couch ask I wrote. His donor sib’s photo came up and while he didn’t say anything…I could feel something in the intentness of his expression. The mama in me wants so shield him from too much information about his origins but I know I cannot. While I won’t push it on him, one day he will begin to ask and I will gently tell. He will not be any less "mine"..or "ours" but he will know. I will let him decide the depth and breadth of the "knowing". I will take my cues from him and him alone. 

But today..I wasn’t as bothered. We talked about height and weight percentages and teeth and puberty. I bragged a little how well he is doing in tumbling/gymnastics and it seemed to end there. Which I was fine with.

I’ve done little with my project for the last couple of days. I am starting with characters: A young woman in her 20’s. Her sister. Her mother. Father? Brothers?  What would it feel like to be a woman in her middle to late 20’s to be pregnant and unmarried in a heavily Catholic mountain village in the mid 40’s while a horrible war raged all around you? What would you think/do? Who was the father and how? How would the times, the place, the people affect you? Lots of mulling to do and time to begin the beginnings of a loose plot-weave. Who are the neighbors? Are they friend or foe or a mix of both? 

We’ve had 2 days of fantastical storms. Wind, lightening, thunder, torrential rain. Pervasive damp and cool. I know I am not supposed to like days like this but I do. Suits my moody nature. 

I am writing more and more. I am reading more and more. Yet I am getting quieter and quieter. The sounds of my own voice makes me wince. I don’t want to say words. I want to BE words.

Time to go do more laundry