Sunday 15 January 2017 | An old friend of mine is having a baby boy. Pregnancy is such a magical time, and I am so happy for her. I think about my own pregnancy all the time, and while I don't want to have another baby, and I am in every way unaccountably happy to have my boy living here with me, outside my uterus, I miss being pregnant sometimes. I tell Mads, usually when he's climbed into our bed in the mornings for snuggles, "You used to live inside me. I grew you like a watermelon," and he finds the whole idea very funny.
Tuesday 17 January 2017 | A photo popped up on Facebook today of me at a gathering with friends, and I hated it. It wasn't the stomach roll or that, in general, I looked kind of washed out and bland, but that I looked so dreadfully, painfully bored. I hated to see that in a moment of celebration with friends, I looked so dull, so out of it, so removed. On the day of the photo, I was feeling a touch of the social anxiety which crops up to step on my toes every once in a while. I wished, looking at that photo, that it wasn't so obvious on my face.
Beyonce's "Formation," at least ten times today.
Sunday 22 January 2017 | I dropped Mads off with my sister today, but I missed him and tidied his room while he was gone. I organized his toys and hung more dream catchers above his bed and held so much love for him and sent so much love out to him.
Tuesday 24 January 2017 | I'd made the decision, after seeing news of the Dakota Access Pipeline and having a very real, very physical reaction that hurt, to stay off the internet for a while. Not to bury my head in the sand, but to step away from a Twitter feed that, increasingly, has made me feel trapped and furious. After I made this decision, I took a walk, looked up in the sky and saw this cloud ship.
Sunday 29 January 2017 | A friend wrote to me about her husband crying during Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, during that scene when the house in Montauk begins to fall apart and fill with sand and water at the end. She wrote that he is not, usually, a crier, not at all.