Nonsense, Drivel, and Balderdash

Saturday morning and my usual alarm clock goes off and runs through her litany: "Dada, Mama, Agua, Duck..." It doesn't matter who comes to her rescue as long as it gets her out of her cage. Feeling sorry for the little one and guilty as the non-nursing spouse, I drag myself out of bed. The baby is up for good, which means I am too. I pick her out of the crib, and carry her to the living room where we will hold our usual Saturday morning vigil and wait for the dawn, just as we have for the past 12 months. 

A hasidic Jewish man was at the bus stop with me this morning, dressed in his usual black outfit and hat. He wished me a good day through his long beard and I reciprocated through my short one. A few minutes later, as we waited, I watched him pull a small text out of his coat pocket and carefully begin studying the words, silently mouthing along as he read, eyes squinting in concentration.  Envying his piety, I wondered what text could provide him with such comfort and evoke such devotion.  In the end, he was just like the rest of us, reading the bus schedule and waiting. 

There was something different in the way Martha sat up in her crib, screaming, searching round her room, through her mop of hair, for something to give her comfort. I went in the room, dark except for the light of her pink hedgehog lamp, and picked up my sobbing child. She buried her head into my shoulder and her body into my chest, heart against heart. Slowly, stillness returned as fears were overpowered and forgotten. Big fists finally unclenched after hearing little lips sigh.

Don't bother that chicken in the oven. Let it sit there, covered in salt, pepper, and spices, until it is crisp and brown. Once it is done, give it a rest. It needs its space. But the rice... the rice needs some company, and the drippings -hot and salty and greasy- have been sitting in a corner of the baking dish for over an hour, waiting for you to make the introduction.

I recently saw that a friend of mine has set a new year's resolution to keep a five sentence journal for herself. It seems like a good way to chronicle thoughts and milestones without setting unreasonable, and ultimately  unreachable , writing goals. Nanowrimo never worked for me because I can't commit to writing thousands of words a day. But I can do at least five sentences. So here we go.