Brit - the inanimate object

Herbert is 8 days shy of 7 months old. His height and weight relative to other babies his age are "off the charts". My beautiful boy is a well-proportioned giant. He babbles. He rolls over. He reaches for any and everything. He blows raspberries. He sleeps well. His hair is growing unevenly and his first tooth has broken through. My, how time has transformed the both of us.

 

While he is discovering new galaxies in his belly button, I am looking more and more like an old couch cushion, surely inviting and comfortable at some point in her life, but now smells a bit like a twice worn, once washed sock. The transformation is almost a rite of passage, I feel. I had about 5 sexy years and used them to trap my unwitting husband, who does not seem to be following saggy suit. Oh, love. Oh, life.

My little family and I will be moving pretty soon. Bigger place, reasonable rent. I am not looking forward to the moving part at all, but I'm dropping the feminist flag and calling it a boy job. Oh, me.

 

Work is work. Not much to discuss there. 

 

I have found myself totally lacking imagination, lately. I used to fantasize and daydream, but these days, I'm pretty focused on the nothingness. I played my guitar for the first time in over a year the other day, and while it felt wonderful and invigorating, it hasn't gone anywhere since. My writing is a chewed up baseball card. If it were worth anything before, it is surely worth less to nothing now. My most productive muse is cursing his poor fortunes in an 18-wheeler somewhere. There are no more bartenders; no more speaker walls; no more surprise smooches. And why should there be? I am like a box of pancake mix that sat outside in air just humid enough to lose structural integrity.

 

Anyways.

 

I'm doing desk work tonight, hence my rare opportunity to sit and write. 

There is nothing apart from the hum of the servers, yet still, I feel distracted.

To stillness!