Fugue
The compulsion to write has deserted me in the last few days. Perhaps it may be the low-grade cold that's been hovering over the horizon of my much-abused immune system. Or maybe it's having to go through a series of short-term nannies that's left me with an exhausted fatalism: I leave it up to you, Papa God, to find the right person for my kids.
Who knows, it may even be the fact that I've jumped back on the pill wagon lately, not wanting to add to the country's overburdened population rate (or strain the family's already non-existent coffers). All urges to bang my husband have flown out the window. Enter tepid unenthusiastic Aifee, exit cranky unsatisfied Atchbund. The ripple effect has included my creative process apparently.
I've neglected to write about the time that Woog was unenthusiastically plodding his way through breakfast: a two-hour affair punctuated by occasional visits to the tv room and epochal pauses to chat about the Power Rangers. I've of course neglected to say that this happens At. Every. Single. Meal.
Long story short, I took away his nibbled-at food (buttered toast with sugar, french fries, rice, egg and sausage), and withheld lunch as well. How he howled. He subsisted on water and a stolen piece of chocolate until dinner-time when, with warnings from Inday that he might get dehydrated, I finally plunked down some food in front of him. He wolfed it down in record time and asked for seconds. Needless to say, I've learned my lesson: why the hell did I withhold food from him as punishment when the object was to get him to eat in the first place? Such a messed-up mommy I am. Poor Woog.
Or about the nights when Eli kept us (and is continuing to keep us) awake screaming. His first upper incisor is beginning to break through, and he grumps around during the day with the personality of a rabid menopausal rhinoceros, drooling at the mouth and snorting at the nose.
Or about our new nanny, a 49-year-old grandmother of four. Yaya Rose is really leaving this time, and she has been training the new nanny in earnest. Yaya Merle is a fat squat jolly little lady who can cook up a storm (its not in her job description, but she does it anyway), and snores like a locomotive in full steam, rivaling even Atch's sonorous nocturnal murmurings. Her first night here, Woog awoke in fright at her snores that reverberated all the way downstairs. And I thought one of the electric fan blades had broken off.
Or about the paid-to-blog opportunities that have been cropping up in my inbox. Normally, I'd be slavering and panting at the chance to earn moolah while practicing what I've come to call my craft. This time around, I deleted them as if in a dream, with some inner warning faintly screaming that I'd be regretting this rash move.
And my back hurts like the devil.
What other excuses can I come up with?
I cannot ascertain how long this floaty indifference is going to last. Perhaps after the winners of this year's local elections have been proclaimed ("Thieves, every one of them," Atch is wont to say, and I'm wont to agree with him), perhaps longer.
Who can tell? Certainly not me.
Who knows, it may even be the fact that I've jumped back on the pill wagon lately, not wanting to add to the country's overburdened population rate (or strain the family's already non-existent coffers). All urges to bang my husband have flown out the window. Enter tepid unenthusiastic Aifee, exit cranky unsatisfied Atchbund. The ripple effect has included my creative process apparently.
I've neglected to write about the time that Woog was unenthusiastically plodding his way through breakfast: a two-hour affair punctuated by occasional visits to the tv room and epochal pauses to chat about the Power Rangers. I've of course neglected to say that this happens At. Every. Single. Meal.
Long story short, I took away his nibbled-at food (buttered toast with sugar, french fries, rice, egg and sausage), and withheld lunch as well. How he howled. He subsisted on water and a stolen piece of chocolate until dinner-time when, with warnings from Inday that he might get dehydrated, I finally plunked down some food in front of him. He wolfed it down in record time and asked for seconds. Needless to say, I've learned my lesson: why the hell did I withhold food from him as punishment when the object was to get him to eat in the first place? Such a messed-up mommy I am. Poor Woog.
Or about the nights when Eli kept us (and is continuing to keep us) awake screaming. His first upper incisor is beginning to break through, and he grumps around during the day with the personality of a rabid menopausal rhinoceros, drooling at the mouth and snorting at the nose.
Or about our new nanny, a 49-year-old grandmother of four. Yaya Rose is really leaving this time, and she has been training the new nanny in earnest. Yaya Merle is a fat squat jolly little lady who can cook up a storm (its not in her job description, but she does it anyway), and snores like a locomotive in full steam, rivaling even Atch's sonorous nocturnal murmurings. Her first night here, Woog awoke in fright at her snores that reverberated all the way downstairs. And I thought one of the electric fan blades had broken off.
Or about the paid-to-blog opportunities that have been cropping up in my inbox. Normally, I'd be slavering and panting at the chance to earn moolah while practicing what I've come to call my craft. This time around, I deleted them as if in a dream, with some inner warning faintly screaming that I'd be regretting this rash move.
And my back hurts like the devil.
What other excuses can I come up with?
I cannot ascertain how long this floaty indifference is going to last. Perhaps after the winners of this year's local elections have been proclaimed ("Thieves, every one of them," Atch is wont to say, and I'm wont to agree with him), perhaps longer.
Who can tell? Certainly not me.
