f**king fire alarm, oh how i love thee

Raising a Humanist

i love the way thy little green light blinks to say you will sleep safe tonight

i love the way thou dost blend in so well with my off white ceiling

i love the way thy battery only dies at 5 in the morning

i love the way thou dost bleep every twenty seconds to tell me thy battery is dead

i love the way thou didst wake up my daughter with thy bleeping so she decided she needed to nurse which means i had to spend an entire nursing session listening to thy ear-piercing bleeps

i love how scary it is to pull out thy battery because if i don’t pull fast enough thou wilt do much more than bleep

i love how no matter how many homes i’ve lived in and how many times thou hast done this to me, i never think to have batteries in the house that are sized just for thee

and most of all, i fucking love how thou dost interrupt my sleep

originally written and posted on my momblog in October 2007.  given last night’s wake-up call and the ear-piercing chirping to which i dozed for the next 4 hours, i thought it was time for a re-post.

making love with fabric

Personal, , , , ,

My heart can get full sometimes.

It can complicate life.

My heart bursts with the hurts and the joys of others.  And then it gets all mixed up, mashed, and bubbly as i wonder what i can do to alleviate hurts i have no control over, or share in joys that are not mine…or wish for joys that are not mine…

And I find myself dreaming of the swaying of skirts, the swish of ribbons, and the feel of buttons in my hands.  I pull out my scissors, paw through boxes of fabric, and lay out grand plans for healing my heart through my hands.

In my mind, new babies are clothed in soft cotton kimono wraps, my girlfriends sashay in skirts that match their darling daughters, my child’s dollies and puppies are adorned with new accessories, i am forced to buy new shoes just to match the perfect little spring dress i whipped up, and my child snuggles up under her new quilt made just for her.

In reality, my projects take far longer because although the dreams are there, the time is not.

But I know, if I have the time to stitch every day, my heart would be too busy making love with fabric to notice it hurt at all.