This is a writing exercise stolen from my Brother’s friend Aaryn over at “thematically fickle.” I regularly stalk her blog and Flickr account. She is a very talented writer and photographer. She is also a very nice lady with a little girl that I want to gobble up every time I see her.
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I live day to day by the skin of my ass. Most days I am so preoccupied that I derive no enjoyment out of it whatsoever. As soon as I blink it is already tomorrow.
I work just hard enough to get my paycheck every other week but not hard enough for a promotion or a raise – that is a-o-k with me most days.
I talk so loudly. I get even louder when I am nervous and I giggle too. I realize it only when someone gives me that look that says “Man, that woman is obnoxious” and then all the blood rushes to my face. It is only 30 seconds of time or maybe less but; it feels like an eternity when that happens.
I wish I had paid more attention to the love I had instead of longing for the love I was missing.
I enjoy singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs with Mogo. For just a little while, I feel 6 years old too.
I look so very old for 33.
I smell his little knit cap sometimes when I am alone in the house. I keep it in the small green box they gave me at the hospital. Each time I open that box, I am surprised that it still smells like him. I don’t open it very often for fear that one day it won’t anymore –one day I will have sniffed all the smell out of that little cap.
I hide my vanilla creamer from Matt because he likes to put it on his cereal.
I pray for other people. I think “What’s his Name” up there has heard enough out of me.
I walk with purpose; accept when I am looking at my feet. In fact, I usually look at my feet until I realize I am doing it. Then I become preoccupied with the fact that I am looking at my feet and not walking with purpose. It is a vicious cycle that makes my brain hurt.
I sing Indian songs my old friend taught me to Mogo. There is one about The Bear and another one Blessing the Tress. I can hear his drum beating, and I can smell the burning sage as I sing it to her. Those songs will always remind me of him.
I can make an awesome Mac & Cheese without a box.
I watch other couples and wonder why we are not more affectionate.
I yearn to travel with my husband sans children, to visit far off places and dine in fabulous hole in the wall restaurants where the locals go. I want to sit in front of coffee shops in other countries and make fun of those people for a while. I want to hold hands with him as we walk down unfamiliar streets and meet quirky people there and have a few adventures just my Old Man & me.
I daydream about owning a house of our own. A place where Mogo & Charlie will feel safe and know that is their place, their home. You just don’t get the same feel from an apartment.
I want to scream at people who speak to their children with disdain. You know the type? The ones who have completely broken their child’s spirit in public? Actually, I would love to punch them in the nose.
I cry easily.
I read a blog once written by a lady whose son died the same day I lost Aidan. He had been stillborn too. She wrote exactly what I was feeling at that moment. It was so strange and surreal.
I love to watch people interact with each other. I love to make up outlandish stories about them in my head. It would be so much more fun to tell someone else their stories though.
I wonder if he ever wishes I was someone else.
I touch the hair on the back of his neck whenever he is sitting next to me. It sort of pisses him off but I like the way it feels on my fingertips. I also sort of enjoy annoying him.
I hurt my knee practicing my Pirouettes in the kitchen when I was in the 8th grade. I was incapable of standing still then. I was always practicing some dance step and I was also a bit of a klutz. Never was the ballerina type.
I fear that I might break them with my words, that they will never know just how much they are loved. I worry they will turn out like me.
I hope to grow old & grey with him. I hope our only regret will be that we don’t have another 100 years together.
I break for pedestrians.
I eat “AT” people. You know, sort of an “I’ll show you… see this brownie here? F-U I am EATING it” I often forget that if I eat in someone’s general direction, they aren’t the one whose ass gets bigger. Come to think of it, I smoke at people too.
I quit smoking for babies but I have a hard time staying quit for me.
I bathe with smell good girly soaps and bubbles, while burning candles, and reading trashy romance novels every chance I get. My mother has the world’s largest bath tub and it is pure decadence when she goes out of town.
I drink 2 cups of coffee in the morning during the week with tons of vanilla creamer and I splurge on a vanilla latte or 4 over the weekend too. Charlie is the most caffeinated baby on the block.
I save the top of my muffin for last because I love it so.
I hug. Yep, I am a hugger. My husband’s hugs envelope me and sometimes crack my back when I need it. I really like hugging tall men with big bellies, and little kids. I cannot stand light – half hearted hugs. Hugs should be big wonderful squeezes. I don’t understand or trust people that don’t hug. I often hug the non-huggers anyways. So what if it’s awkward.
I miss playing outside with my friends until the street lights came on. I miss hide-n-seek, and I miss riding my bike down a steep hill at dusk when the air is a bit chilly and I am hot from the exercise.
I forgive other people easily. I have the hardest time forgiving myself.
I’ve learned that things don’t ever really get better… they just get different.
I have the utmost respect for those who can shop the day after Thanksgiving and keep their sense of humor. I myself cannot hold my temper enough to consider it. I stay far, far away from any retail establishments on “Black Friday”
I don’t have an artistic outlet that really gets me going. I have a few hobbies or pastimes that I try out now and then but none of them have turned into full fledged passions for me. I am jealous of those who have something like that.
I kiss the bottom of Mogo’s feet even when they are stinky. She will probably only let me do that for a little while longer though.
I wonder if all those wishes and prayers for world peace will ever be answered… I wonder if perhaps they already have but the answer was no.
