The sound of a bins’ truck down our street.
The warmth and whiff of the mug of tea – or coffee.
The damp smell of humidity from the shower.
The normalcy of brushing one’s teeth.
An areugh and a laugh downstairs.
The smell of toast, the pang, the crunch – spreading butter…
The scent of fresh air and grass when I open the door.
Quacking pigeons and seagulls.
The wind in the leaves.
A kiss under the blue sky.
A cat miawing, a car roaring.
The sound of the truck driving away.
What a lovely day!
We watched Fantasia with my almost four year old today. His choice, because of the Mickey on the cover I think. He didn’t know what he was listening to but he was fascinated by the music and the images! Loving being at home and having the time!
I guess it was our new year resolution after all: we’ve paid for an allotment of 80m2, for one year, outside of Dublin – to grow tomatoes, parsnips, strawberries, tulips…! We cannot really use the garden of the house we rent so this is the closest we could find. We have a few ideas of what we could do with it, including keeping small spaces for the children to have a go. We’re planning to go all together during the weekends, and for me to go during the weeks with the children, depending on the needs of the plot, and the weather…
Next step: tulips and divisions of the allotment! Then, probably, a shed 🙂
– A garden is a great teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all, it teaches entire trust. Gertrude Jekyll
My shoulders hurt, my arms, my belly, my hips, my thighs…
I gave birth two days ago
for the second time.
Tired and aching,
I find myself liking some of the muscle stiffness –
they are the signs of the battle I fought
against fear and doubt and through pain,
armed with a ball, a TENS, and the memories of my first.
It was unexpected then,
this time I knew going into fight,
though I’d forgotten too.
I breathed, I held, I moved,
secured and supported by my guardian,
my comrade in-arms, my midwife,
I pushed for Life.
His head first, then his shoulders came, down to his feet!
He breathed and he cried!
As I carry my son in my arms
and feed through the night,
I find myself wishing for tattoos:
one for my eldest, one for my youngest.
They would be my medals
for the most important battles I ever fought,
the most important wars I won.
And there I know,
if I were to keep some – priorly dreaded – marks
of this pregnancy on my body, proud I should be.