Kitty Cat came to me yesterday morning while I showered. She was wild-haired, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. She'd just jumped from bed and checked a tiny pot that sits on her windowsill. "Sprouts!" she crowed. "Little green sprouts coming up!"
She's been diligently watering them for six days. Too much, probably. I worried she'd kill them with kindness. But so far, so good.
Soon, we'll transplant them and, eventually, zinnias will blossom.
It's another day, very different from the one where Kitty Cat burst in on me and did her new sprout dance.
I'm bitter. Unappreciative. J. and I go round and round an issue that centers on a guitar. The guitar represents nearly every dissatisfaction we have in our lives together. It's so fucking stupid and symbolic and crazy-making. Sometimes I look at that guitar and want to smash it to bits. Other times I feel sorry for it, sitting there all shiny and neglected.
J. is working a ton again and feeling guilty about his almost total immersion into lawyering. Yet, I don't know how to not take it personally--his schedule that is really too full for me. Sometimes I think back on the days when he was a clerk for an appellate judge and wonder what it would've been like if he'd stayed there. We'd be poorer. And I'd have had to work, too, all this time with small children. But he'd be home.
I don't know. Nothing is ideal. It's just the way it goes, I guess.
Kitty Cat woke me this morning at four. She'd had another bad dream. I laid on the futon in her room and we played the favorite game, our voices whispery as the rest of the house slept. What's your favorite food? What's your favorite game? What's your favorite flower? It helps her forget whatever vile thing haunted her subconscious.
I want someone to play the favorite game with me...Crab...strip poker...peonies...