Despite spending a beautiful Christmas Day with family watching A. run around like an espresso-fueled elfling enjoying her first real holiday haul (we'll have to scale back next year so she doesn't start forming expectations of how much "stuff" she is entitled to...) I have still been fighting the winter blues as usual this season. It's especially tough being stuck inside even on sunny days because it's like 20 degrees out... and not getting outside enough this summer to get my quota of Vitamin D probably didn't help, either.
I feel (more than) a little anxiety about baby #2's arrival this March. (Did I mention this news here yet?) He was a planned surprise, I guess, the surprise being how quickly he was conceived in comparison to his sister, despite the fact that I was only barely still in my 30s when he was conceived (and will no longer be in that demographic when he's born.) So we were thrilled, but on the other hand, I'm also kind of freaked out about the prospect of raising an infant and a toddler all at once. Our hunter-gatherer forebears apparently timed their births more like three or four years apart, and so did my mom, my immediate forebear, and I'm thinking they were all probably on to something with that plan... However, I got a much later start than any of my forebears did and so waiting that long wasn't an option, although both of my grandmothers did give birth to second and fourth children, respectively, at the age of 40, so maybe that should make me a little less nervous ... but I can't help but be a little worried about the birth, and the recovery, too. When I was pregnant with A., I spent the entire third trimester in summertime, and although that meant my feet and nonexistent ankles resembled zeppelins, I was bathed in the optimism of summertime, a first-time prospective mother's excitement bred of blissful ignorance (despite the strong measure of realism that led me to delay this step for so long in the first place) and a relatively easygoing lifestyle. Go to work, or -- toward the end -- work from home, eat, sleep, read, write, entertain myself on weekends and downtime in the same ways I had for most of my adult life (with the exception of alcoholic beverages.) Now my life is radically changed -- in many ways, for the better. I spend my days with a person I love more than I've loved anyone or even realized I could love anyone. She makes me giddily, insanely happy just being her exuberant, affectionate little self. And yet it's not an easy, stress-free life full of the sorts of things that used to make me feel productive or accomplished. I neglect my writing for months at a time;
Melusine issues lag; I can't even seem to keep up with posting baby photos on Facebook, much less socializing even as much as I used to before (which wasn't all that much.) The house doesn't look much worse than it did before; in fact, with all the baby-proofing and reorganizing we've had to do, it probably looks a lot better, but it still isn't what I imagine most people's houses look like, and forget trying to cook healthy meals from scratch. If I'm a housewife, I'm the worst one ever, a badge of shame as well as a measure of guilty pride, I guess. When I spend time on one thing, like getting the house in order, another thing, like writing, languishes, and I'm not willing to give up on the writing. I'm hoping that eventually my two contract editing gigs will earn me enough funds to hire a housecleaning service, but so far that's not been the case.
So that's what's been happening -- a much more confessional post than the vast majority of what I put up here, but what the hell; I may as well be honest. And in the end, I still have no regrets; I just wish I had a lot more time, in the near-term and long-term sense of the word.
On to some poetry updates. Well, for one thing, I actually wrote a poem! I had checked my log on New Year's Day and realized I hadn't written anything in six months. I've been polishing and sending my full-length manuscript out to contests, but I haven't been writing anything new. So that morning while A. and her father were hanging out at the book store, I just sat down and typed up a poem. It is a lot easier to write with six months' worth of unwritten poem juice brewing -- no need for writing exercises or my usual stream of consciousness tricks, and it wouldn't have mattered the subject; I was just ready to write something, good, bad or mediocre.
Secondly, I got a poem accepted in the
Free State Review last month, which is exciting since it's been a while since I've had a poem in print (non-digitally.) The issue will be out this summer.
Thirdly, I was included in the fun Tumblr blog
Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants that ran briefly but memorably at the turn of the year. I realize the impetus of the blog was a response to a feature story and I suppose there are politics surrounding that, but I'm not too interested in getting into the why of it all; I just think it was an awesome idea for a blog that took on a life of its own, and it was great to see that it touched a nerve among women writers, and maybe some guy writers, too, and made us all especially excited about what we do for a few weeks. Poets don't always get moments like that, but I hope we see more of them this year. Kudos to
Becca Klaver for helming the project.
Finally, there's another belated
Melusine issue to wrap up. Fortunately, I'm not as far behind as I was last year at this time, when I should have just admitted that I had stacked my plate too high with giving birth in September and aiming for a new issue by the end of the year. It seems like those two things should both be possible in a four-month period, and I'm sure there are others who could manage that, but then I'm not the most energetic person in the world, nor was I the most well-versed in the skills required for new motherhood coming into it, and then there's the fact that I have yet to recruit any kind of editorial staff for the journal. I guess there's a bit of the control freak in me sometimes, but not the kind who wants to control anyone else, just the live-and-let-live kind of freak. But sometimes it's good to admit I could use a hand with something. On the motherhood front, baby #2 is probably going to remind me daily of that fine point as well.
Here's to more poetry (of all kinds) in the new year. I'll raise my insulated paper cup of half-caff with milk & cocoa to that.
