Faulkner

The cat is dying. I suppose that will do for gratuitous internet blog content. Drama, tragedy, and scandal are all the rage on the web. Whatever catches one's attention, a moment of voyeurism, or sympathy, I suppose.

"I don't want him to go," my son says.

Well, neither do I, not after thirteen years, my stealthy, black, anti-social ferret of a cat.

Somewhere, amidst the chaos of ordinary life with children, in its vibrancy and melodrama, its self-obsession and neurosis, a flash of the mortality of all things, the cat a skeleton with a tumor, sleeping behind the toilet.

What do we do? Set him up in the bathroom with water he won't drink and a cat box and two ratty, hair-lined cat beds. I give him rubs and hold him and wonder if he might make it because my son has kissed him and once, last year, when I accidentally uprooted (while weeding) a scarlet bean plant (gorgeous, healthy, productive), my son kissed the vine as it withered almost instantly in front of our eyes, then wouldn't you know, or would you never believe?, that plant, wilts and near-dies then (despite even a break in it's lower stalk--and of course I'd instantly replanted it in desperation), greens again. Lives.

I think of my novel, how I might be more literary, more serious, more important as a novelist if I'd killed off a few characters and encircled them with despair, melancholy, alcoholism--which always sells. But then life gives us more than we need of heartbreak. I don't think fiction needs to dream up sadness. It's a river through the landscape of every life, one way or another, and though we might like to glimpse another person's losses, laughter pulls us awake, and away, into the very fine land of perspective, where, though the cat lays dying, the baby and toddler make festive rolling over one another in paroxysms of hilarity and for a moment I recall the bold, squat face of my kitten, who my Jewish friend always said was surely a Jewish cat, and how the other month I had to pick the shit off his tail (what was he thinking?), and that he has never been a groomer or a lover of people, but that he has always liked me, and late at night will come for pats, like every other cat, or like a person, a friend, a lover, a child, to sit on your lap and be comforted for a short while.

Delusions

Ever notice how when you post on your blog you imagine thousands, if not millions, of eager readers devouring your every clever word? Okay, maybe YOU don't do that. And hey, neither do I. I'm too busy trying not to check my book sales on Amazon.com, and, um, taking care of my children, to worry about the relative success of my blog personality. Anyway, I cannot compete. I am told, though I have not read, blogs that journal in great detail one's sex life, one's divorce, one's affairs, one's depression.

I have nothing on these people.

Well, except cloth diapers. They're very edgy, you know. Very now. Very political. And I've been using the same set through two children. Thrifty lady. Maybe one day I'll post a picture of them. Stay tuned. Don't turn off your computer. Things are happening on this blog! Watch out! Boring mother, woefully lacking in racy content, blogs on.

Why I Don't Love Sand

And other troubles with the beach vacation.

Drop bathing suit. Insert nipple into mouth of nursing babe. Watch her back away with a look of resentful disgust, puckering her lips and shaking her head. No, she will not nurse at the salty bosom of a woman who has been swimming recently enough to still have seaweed cleaving to her cleavage.

This leads to the ritual washing of the breasts, over the sink, with water and dish soap. Three times I go back. I hope the neighbors are enjoying the show because, as it happens, I am not.

Also, too much sand in the diaper does in fact lead to diaper rash.

And, it's possible for a grain of sand to plant itself in one's foot, impersonating a garden variety splinter.

Look out for sand in your hair as well as on your pretzels. Sand on the pretzel does not constitute a salty pretzel. You have to dip it in the ocean for that.

But then, I am on the beach every day. There is simply nothing to complain about. Not even the tedious, frustrating thrice daily application of SPF during which all children will fight against you while you shout threateningly, "Do you want to get burned? Do you? DO YOU? I don't think so!!"

For the record, my son has responded to this rhetorical drama. "Yes, Mama, I want a burn."

Oh, so speak the innocents who have no idea, no idea, of the suffering I am ensuring they will never have. Good mommy. Sleep well at night mommy, in your sandy bed.

All the way to Hong Kong

Look! A dear, old friend of mine from high school got my book delivered to Hong Kong. And there it is. The Hong Kong skyline. And that, most likely, is as close as I will ever get to seeing the view myself.

But, don't you think the book looks good in that light? Very sexy. Very sophisticated.

On life after birth

So I'm attaching this monster ship of a maxipad to my underwear, and, based on size and weight alone the thing ought at the very least to require staples if not full on nails and a hammer, when it dawns on me that if I continue to use these super size pads, I will fill every landfill on the planet.

But, hey, it happens. After babies, you get what my midwife cheerily called "a return to fertility." You know, your monthly friend. Little red friend from Kansas.

Anyhow, this little friend of mine has changed since the kids came along. She's not what she used to be, way back, when she was younger. I can't really blame her, I've changed too.

Whoa! Help! I'll have to write more later....the current is taking me downstream on my kayak of cotton--

Has this ever happened to you?

I opened the refrigerator door and located a glass container of jam. Opened it. Inserted knife. Oh, the hollow, sad sound of scraping glass.

Someone in my household had returned said jar to the fridge.

I guess they were thinking it could still be licked clean.

Say, if you had the tongue of a dog.

Eat Your Peas!

And butter. And cheese. And bread.

I don't want to have to say it, but I've got a skinny daughter. I'm wondering where I went wrong. Has it already started, the culturally prescribed rite-of-passage body-obsessed diet-crazed habits of girlhood?

I mean, she's only fifteen months old. And I'm standing over here like an Italian grandmother practically pouring lard down her throat. She walks around on legs like a new born fawn, straight shoots from the hips down. My son, on the other hand, had rolls you could hide your cash in, say, if you didn't feel confident enough to put it in the market.

Well, if you want an exercise in futility, tell a burgeoning toddler to eat her dinner. She is too young to bribe with dessert, too clever to simply take what you offer--if she doesn't like it, she spits it out--and too good to be left in her high chair until she eats what she's been given. I could not even get her to eat bread and butter. Until I put jam on it. And while she wouldn't eat yogurt before, she will eat it now with honey in it.

You can feel free to give me advice, but I'm sure I don't need it. If I want to fatten her up, I'll have to put her on my diet: chocolate, baked goods, and chocolate, for variety. But what do they say? Girls are made of sugar and spice? They are certainly not made out of peas.