(Now I want to go to Trolls for dinner.)
You didn't miss last week. What are you talking about? Sam's coffee breath wakes me up completely as I stand in the front hall helping him tie his Windsor knot. He'll never be pulled together. We're practically twins in that. In fact, you told me twice it was boring.
That's why I forgot. Sorry. I kiss his cheek and he heads out the door. I'm still in pajamas, about to have some coffee breath of my own. I'm not going to church, off the hook since I went last week when very few of the boys did. Sam absolved me over an early breakfast and now I'm kicking myself for getting up at all when I could have slept in. I could have slept for hours but Lochlan practically shoved me out of bed.
Go dig some clams for the Lord.
And he laughed weakly and was asleep again before I had both my legs properly underneath me enough to walk away.
Christian, Andrew, Schuy and Danny represented the point this morning but I'm awake anyway. I make a big cup of coffee and dump some sweetened condensed milk into it before pouring the whole thing into a travel mug and heading for the door. I shrug into my wool wrap and boots and take my cup across the driveway to the stable. It's heated now and completely weathertight so I can leave my art supplies here. I have a small cupboard with a bluetooth speaker on top and all of my paints and sketchbooks are neatly organized inside.
There's a small table and chair and my easel stands in front of the south-facing windows. Lots of light, actually, and a cozy little space to have some time to myself which is something I need but somehow got used to never having as I'm perfectly happy to have someone close by to molest and touch and tickle and just be with. And so I never decompress. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the boys winterizing this, somehow without me knowing. It has electric heat now and better lighting too and I don't have to worry about the pipes for the work sink freezing ever again.
I pull out a tiny canvas board, barely six by four inches, and paint a clam for Lochlan. It's not very good, as I do it from memory but somehow it makes me feel better. They get ideas and we go and do them. I get ideas and I get made fun of. I miss spending time at the water doing things. All we do is walk and talk on the beach these days. There's no building sandcastles or collecting shells. There's rarely swimming. It's always a psychic workload. I've grown to dread the walks just because they involve so much introspection, admission and enlightenment. Ideas to try. Restoration to embark on. Penance to pay. Healing to be done.
Dreading being within touching distance of the ocean, dreading going to it, dreading being near it isn't an association I want to have, ever and I'm angry that it's come to this. I don't want to walk anymore. I'll sit in the fucking library or lie in bed and talk til I'm blue in the face if that's what you want but don't turn the only place where I can breathe into something awful.
When I'm happy with Lochlan's painting I set it aside to dry and work on some other little projects. I'm between ideas so I draw and learn and experiment. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just putter around and think.
I would stay all day but we have plans so when my phone starts blowing up I collect my mug and the painting and put my boots back on for the trip across the driveway. I even resent the boots today but bare feet in the winter bring shouts of disapproval and disappointed looks. When I get inside I take the painting to show Lochlan.
Made you something.
Oh! Hey! This is great! It's a UFO! I like it. Very stylized.
I nod, mouth set in a line and force a smile. Enjoy.
I know it's a clam, Bridget.
How do you know it's a clam?
The happy face. It totally gives it away. He bursts into laughter. I love it.
It means you don't have to take me clam-digging. We have one now.
Jesus. If that's all it takes, paint me a show, Baby.
I can do that.
Be a lot harder than a mollusk.
Not really. He was difficult as fuck. I mean, look at him! He has a face!
You didn't miss last week. What are you talking about? Sam's coffee breath wakes me up completely as I stand in the front hall helping him tie his Windsor knot. He'll never be pulled together. We're practically twins in that. In fact, you told me twice it was boring.
That's why I forgot. Sorry. I kiss his cheek and he heads out the door. I'm still in pajamas, about to have some coffee breath of my own. I'm not going to church, off the hook since I went last week when very few of the boys did. Sam absolved me over an early breakfast and now I'm kicking myself for getting up at all when I could have slept in. I could have slept for hours but Lochlan practically shoved me out of bed.
Go dig some clams for the Lord.
And he laughed weakly and was asleep again before I had both my legs properly underneath me enough to walk away.
Christian, Andrew, Schuy and Danny represented the point this morning but I'm awake anyway. I make a big cup of coffee and dump some sweetened condensed milk into it before pouring the whole thing into a travel mug and heading for the door. I shrug into my wool wrap and boots and take my cup across the driveway to the stable. It's heated now and completely weathertight so I can leave my art supplies here. I have a small cupboard with a bluetooth speaker on top and all of my paints and sketchbooks are neatly organized inside.
There's a small table and chair and my easel stands in front of the south-facing windows. Lots of light, actually, and a cozy little space to have some time to myself which is something I need but somehow got used to never having as I'm perfectly happy to have someone close by to molest and touch and tickle and just be with. And so I never decompress. One of my Christmas gifts this year was the boys winterizing this, somehow without me knowing. It has electric heat now and better lighting too and I don't have to worry about the pipes for the work sink freezing ever again.
I pull out a tiny canvas board, barely six by four inches, and paint a clam for Lochlan. It's not very good, as I do it from memory but somehow it makes me feel better. They get ideas and we go and do them. I get ideas and I get made fun of. I miss spending time at the water doing things. All we do is walk and talk on the beach these days. There's no building sandcastles or collecting shells. There's rarely swimming. It's always a psychic workload. I've grown to dread the walks just because they involve so much introspection, admission and enlightenment. Ideas to try. Restoration to embark on. Penance to pay. Healing to be done.
Dreading being within touching distance of the ocean, dreading going to it, dreading being near it isn't an association I want to have, ever and I'm angry that it's come to this. I don't want to walk anymore. I'll sit in the fucking library or lie in bed and talk til I'm blue in the face if that's what you want but don't turn the only place where I can breathe into something awful.
When I'm happy with Lochlan's painting I set it aside to dry and work on some other little projects. I'm between ideas so I draw and learn and experiment. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just putter around and think.
I would stay all day but we have plans so when my phone starts blowing up I collect my mug and the painting and put my boots back on for the trip across the driveway. I even resent the boots today but bare feet in the winter bring shouts of disapproval and disappointed looks. When I get inside I take the painting to show Lochlan.
Made you something.
Oh! Hey! This is great! It's a UFO! I like it. Very stylized.
I nod, mouth set in a line and force a smile. Enjoy.
I know it's a clam, Bridget.
How do you know it's a clam?
The happy face. It totally gives it away. He bursts into laughter. I love it.
It means you don't have to take me clam-digging. We have one now.
Jesus. If that's all it takes, paint me a show, Baby.
I can do that.
Be a lot harder than a mollusk.
Not really. He was difficult as fuck. I mean, look at him! He has a face!