Rowan’s hospital visit had me reminiscing about my own three-day stay when I was six years old. I don’t really recall the breathing difficulties that landed me there – it blends in with so many other episodes in those years. But I remember quite a bit from the hospital.
Whew. Things got a little heavy for a minute. Let’s move on.
There is a chance of a flurry tonight, which means we need to cancel life.
The line between quirky and weird seemed to be stuck between my fingers. That feeling when you eat a donut or an ice cream cone and the residue makes your fingers so sticky that you desperately want to find a sink? That’s how they felt. Licking them would help – for a few minutes. Little kids are sticky, and I spent a lot of time licking between my fingers for momentary relief. It drove my parents crazy – we’d be in a public place, and there I was licking my hands like a compulsive cat. And if that wasn’t enough to embarrass every adult responsible for me, sometimes I would get a similar feeling in the back of my throat – this annoying build up of faux pressure that had to be released, and the only way was to make squeaky sounds. Sometimes on inhale, sometimes on exhale, always until a magic point when everything felt better – until the next time. Seams of socks and waistbands constricted, so I turned my socks inside out, and wore my pants around my hips to free myself from their ever-present annoyance. Things just felt wrong and it was a puzzle to make them right again.
From my first folk show at 16 -over half my life ago – to Eddie From Ohio this past weekend, I have been incredibly lucky to be a part of the folk community that does not put barriers and guards between the artists and the fans.
I keep a spreadsheet of ideas to write about, and like most of my organizational efforts it alternates between organized within an nth of its life, and completely forgotten about as I wing it. So when I went to look at the spreadsheet this morning and saw, “That’s Not Lemonade” listed, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know.
I can only assume that the person who designed the house was drunk. Or made a Sims house into reality. That would explain the lock on the outside of my bedroom door, the better to watch me starve with increasingly panicked thought bubbles floating above my head.
We have plenty of beds in our house. Lorelei’s room has a twin-over-full bunk bed, our bedroom has a king-size bed and crib, plus we have couches and a futon. For the last week I have been sleeping with Rowan in the recliner, because we were both getting more sleep that way. Lorelei, never one to sleep in a room by herself, decided to join us. Then Squirt joined in. It was a regular recliner party. Maya was probably just under the foot of the recliner sulking.