Friday, December 6, 2013

five-sense Friday

The days are slow, but the weeks fly past. Today, I see white out the windows: white hill, white sky, white posts recently welded up to turn the park across the street into a football field, white ice on the road. The roofs on all the houses are white. My mug is white, and full of decaf coffee.

This coffee tastes like indulgence, warm on my tongue. I chuckled to myself today, amused at the planning-ahead required for such indulgences in my life these days: grind the coffee while babe is awake, and shake it into the bottom of the French press. Fill the kettle with water. Put the kettle on as soon as she's gone down for a nap, and pour it over the grounds, and hope for a decent stretch of sleep. (Oops--nope--babe's awake. Pick her up in her silky bamboo swaddle, cooing at her, smile into her eyes as she drifts back off to sleep while I bounce on that infernal exercise ball, lay her down--gently! gently!--and jiggle the pack and play, then dash to the kitchen and push the plunger down on the over-brewed coffee. Pour a cup. Take a sip. Return to the site of the waking baby and decide to tie her on so she gets some sleep, nap training be hanged. Bounce her past her protestations into dream land. Return to the cup on the counter.

And still, it tastes so good.

Also good-tasting was my soup at lunch, made from homemade chicken stock. All I did was add two chopped carrots, one chopped stalk of celery, a chopped garlic clove, a half-inch piece of fresh ginger, chopped, egg noodles, and salt. And still, it steamed in my bowl like another rich indulgence.

When the babe is awake, I hear her chatter, her vocal explorations. I hear her breathing as she sleeps. I hear the traffic on the road. I hear, in rare moments, her cries--as this morning, when the building's fire alarms were tested, and she was overtired, and protested the fuss. I climbed up and down the building's stairs with her cries echoing, escaping our apartment until the tests were finished. (And then heard the kindness of the building manager calling my name to let me know all was clear again.)

Cinnamon candle. Fading light. Wool socks on my feet. Advent project paint on my fingers. Cornsilk hair tickling my nose.

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