I sail to the moon
I spoke too soon
And how much did it cost
I was dropped from the moonbeam
And sailed on shooting stars
Maybe you'll be president
But know right from wrong
Or in the flood you'll build an Ark
And sail us to the moon
It's been 275 days since her father died, and Ruth was out yesterday afternoon jumping in puddles with triumphant glee, soaked to her ears, covered with mud. Wearing green wellies, a yellow raincoat and carrying her ladybug umbrella aloft, Ruth was heralding spring all by herself on the sidewalk in front of the house while I sat on the front steps with all three doors behind me into the house wide open to welcome the warmer air after the rain. Warmer being six degrees, and so we wore sweaters buttoned up tight against the chill.
Jacob was beside me on the steps frowning into his paperwork and scribbling lines and lines of writing, stopping every now and again to ask me if I was cold enough yet or more softly, if I wanted a new hot cup of coffee or some toast. He's spent most of the past week and a half sitting next to me and stroking my hair or holding my hand tightly in his, things he does perpetually anyway, with his new customary touch of concern, a dash of extra patience and more than a little sympathy and regret. When I tell him I'm fine and I can still do just about all the boring things myself he lets an edge of pride round out his expression, because physically I am tougher than you would expect. I heal fast, and I rarely slow down for long.
I'm just about one hundred percent again.
Physically anyhow.
Some of Ruth's friends from school came by and she came in to ask if they could stay for a quick tea party and I went to get a towel when I saw her coming and by the time I got to the top of the staircase, she was running in through the porch trying to get Jake's attention.
Only she wasn't yelling Jake! Jake!
She was yelling Dad.
And oddly I could feel his smile before I even saw it.
You couldn't miss it. It was a thousand-watt beam coming straight from his heart.
Monday, 16 April 2007
Sunday, 15 April 2007
Road warrior.
When I was a child I endured very long car drives. I traveled hundreds of miles every few months and just about every major holiday to visit one set of grandparents or the other, both sets living in a different province from my third to my seventh year.
I have vivid memories, not of the visits themselves but of the backseat of the 1972 Olds Vista Cruiser that we drove in. I was the typical youngest, mostly ignored until I was howling, running after everyone to catch up. Whatever part of my life up until age seven that I didn't spend on the beach or in the ocean was spent sitting in the backseat of this station wagon that was the sickliest shade of green ever. Avocado. The only shade of green I don't enjoy to the fullest. The inside was tan vinyl.
I would be sunburned and overtired, keyed-up and wide-eyed, hanging over the front headrest looking at my dad's balding spot or my mom's perfectly sprayed twiggy haircut and chewing on the stick from a lollipop long-finished. My hair was in an unruly ponytail, my white t-shirt and red shorts stained from grass and chocolate and coca cola. I stood and watched the glint of cars as they appeared on the opposite hill and marveled at the mirage made when the sun broiled the pavement on the flat straightaways. I talked nonstop but no one listened until at some point my father would yell at me to be quiet.
Soon I would become dizzy and nauseous and my mother would pass back a chewable motion sickness tablet and tell me to sit down. This was long before seatbelt laws. I would sit back down and poke my fingers out the top of my window, left open a crack for fresh air. The wind rushing past the window would freeze my fingers into tiny icicles, and then I would put them against my hot forehead and relish the cold. The car always smelled like stale Easter candy and potato chips and eventually I would panic and ask my father to pull over. Once I had been sick I would usually sleep for the rest of the trip, only to be rudely awakened by Bailey pulling on my arms and yelling at me to Bridgie, get up, we're here! Bailey never got car sick. I hated her for that.
For some reason the drives back home were always magical in comparison. There was something special about being out in the dark, up past my bedtime, far from home. Wrapped in a too-big handmedown sweatshirt and more sunburned I would take my place in the car behind my father and sit watching closely between the seats as headlights appeared on the road in front of us, drivers blinking their highbeams off when they saw our lights approaching. I would have a sticky face, a sore belly from all the extra treats that long-distance grandparents ply on their grandchildren, and be clutching Blythe, the doll that I dragged around for most of the seventies. My hair would be a wild halo of tangles around my face, in my eyes, in my mouth, with very little left in the ponytail. I smelled like sweat and candy.
I would just watch the lights and listen to the songs on the radio. Deep Purple, Journey, Kansas, The Eagles, Heart, Elton John, Creedence, Gordon Lightfoot, Fleetwood Mac, and I would sing along in my tiny little voice that I couldn't hear but no one else could either. Somewhere around the bay I would nod off at last and then wake up only as my father would miscalculate when he carried me into the house and bump his head on my doorframe as he tried to put me to bed without waking me up.
Those nights I would dream of floating lights set to music, a never-ending trip home.
I still don't like very long drives but I sit up front now and play all those same songs. That helps, at least a little.
I have vivid memories, not of the visits themselves but of the backseat of the 1972 Olds Vista Cruiser that we drove in. I was the typical youngest, mostly ignored until I was howling, running after everyone to catch up. Whatever part of my life up until age seven that I didn't spend on the beach or in the ocean was spent sitting in the backseat of this station wagon that was the sickliest shade of green ever. Avocado. The only shade of green I don't enjoy to the fullest. The inside was tan vinyl.
I would be sunburned and overtired, keyed-up and wide-eyed, hanging over the front headrest looking at my dad's balding spot or my mom's perfectly sprayed twiggy haircut and chewing on the stick from a lollipop long-finished. My hair was in an unruly ponytail, my white t-shirt and red shorts stained from grass and chocolate and coca cola. I stood and watched the glint of cars as they appeared on the opposite hill and marveled at the mirage made when the sun broiled the pavement on the flat straightaways. I talked nonstop but no one listened until at some point my father would yell at me to be quiet.
Soon I would become dizzy and nauseous and my mother would pass back a chewable motion sickness tablet and tell me to sit down. This was long before seatbelt laws. I would sit back down and poke my fingers out the top of my window, left open a crack for fresh air. The wind rushing past the window would freeze my fingers into tiny icicles, and then I would put them against my hot forehead and relish the cold. The car always smelled like stale Easter candy and potato chips and eventually I would panic and ask my father to pull over. Once I had been sick I would usually sleep for the rest of the trip, only to be rudely awakened by Bailey pulling on my arms and yelling at me to Bridgie, get up, we're here! Bailey never got car sick. I hated her for that.
For some reason the drives back home were always magical in comparison. There was something special about being out in the dark, up past my bedtime, far from home. Wrapped in a too-big handmedown sweatshirt and more sunburned I would take my place in the car behind my father and sit watching closely between the seats as headlights appeared on the road in front of us, drivers blinking their highbeams off when they saw our lights approaching. I would have a sticky face, a sore belly from all the extra treats that long-distance grandparents ply on their grandchildren, and be clutching Blythe, the doll that I dragged around for most of the seventies. My hair would be a wild halo of tangles around my face, in my eyes, in my mouth, with very little left in the ponytail. I smelled like sweat and candy.
I would just watch the lights and listen to the songs on the radio. Deep Purple, Journey, Kansas, The Eagles, Heart, Elton John, Creedence, Gordon Lightfoot, Fleetwood Mac, and I would sing along in my tiny little voice that I couldn't hear but no one else could either. Somewhere around the bay I would nod off at last and then wake up only as my father would miscalculate when he carried me into the house and bump his head on my doorframe as he tried to put me to bed without waking me up.
Those nights I would dream of floating lights set to music, a never-ending trip home.
I still don't like very long drives but I sit up front now and play all those same songs. That helps, at least a little.
Saturday, 14 April 2007
Soothing Saturdays.
I'm sitting on the patio right now in the warm early morning sun drinking coffee and working a little bit while Jacob and Henry go up and down the driveway. Over and over and over. Jacob is teaching Henry how to balance on two wheels, having taken the training wheels off earlier this morning. I can tell which heartbeat he hesitates in before he lets go of the back of the bike seat, and I hear the pride and love in his voice as he calls out reinforcement and encouragement once Henry pedals out of reach.
Then he runs to catch up because every time Henry stops he falls off.
Jacob has always been incredibly involved with the kids, from before their births, if you could believe that, as I was gently steered from unhealthy cravings for wonderful things like cheeseburgers and onion rings to salads and wholewheat sandwiches when he would take me out for lunch. He was their surrogate father when Cole worked himself invisible for the past seven years and he was their champion when it seemed like everyone else was busy. I was never sure how Jacob managed to maintain such a presence in our lives when he spread himself so sparing with work commitments and everything else but he did, and he was consistent except and even when he traveled, with postcards, calls and souvenirs.
It is yet one more sign to me that he was meant to be ours.
Then he runs to catch up because every time Henry stops he falls off.
Jacob has always been incredibly involved with the kids, from before their births, if you could believe that, as I was gently steered from unhealthy cravings for wonderful things like cheeseburgers and onion rings to salads and wholewheat sandwiches when he would take me out for lunch. He was their surrogate father when Cole worked himself invisible for the past seven years and he was their champion when it seemed like everyone else was busy. I was never sure how Jacob managed to maintain such a presence in our lives when he spread himself so sparing with work commitments and everything else but he did, and he was consistent except and even when he traveled, with postcards, calls and souvenirs.
It is yet one more sign to me that he was meant to be ours.
Friday, 13 April 2007
Happy sparklies.
Yes! Drive is on the stereo. I love Incubus.
It's driven me beforrrre,
and it seems to have a faaaaint,
haunting mass appeal.
But lately I, am beginning to find that IIII
should be the one behind the wheel.
Anything to get Down with the Sickness out of my head, because I love Disturbed more. Jake cracks up every time I sing it.
Especially the beginning.
Oh-ah-ah-ah-ah! Oh! Oh! Will you give it to me?
In my really Scary Voice. Yeah. Bridget's hardcore.
I am so using that song for my next lap dance. Whenever the hell I can manage it.
It's driven me beforrrre,
and it seems to have a faaaaint,
haunting mass appeal.
But lately I, am beginning to find that IIII
should be the one behind the wheel.
Anything to get Down with the Sickness out of my head, because I love Disturbed more. Jake cracks up every time I sing it.
Especially the beginning.
Oh-ah-ah-ah-ah! Oh! Oh! Will you give it to me?
In my really Scary Voice. Yeah. Bridget's hardcore.
I am so using that song for my next lap dance. Whenever the hell I can manage it.
Sugar high.
Last night after we returned home from Claus, Jacob walked inside, went straight in through the kitchen to the pantry and got the big 10-pound bag of sugar, to represent sand, because we're far from our familiar beaches, and drawing lines in the sand to mark boundaries and starting off points is a long-standing tradition we have. He came back outside and poured the whole thing on the walkway at the bottom of the steps. He then drew a line across the middle with his finger and held his hand out for me to take. I took it and we walked solemnly over that line. A grand gestures that makes his point perfectly.
The line is drawn here and there will be no steps back now, okay, princess?
Okay, Jake.
We're going to be fine.
I know we are.
Why?
Because we want it.
How bad?
So, so bad, Jake.
Yeah, princess. So bad.
By now we're whispering to each other, heads together and standing in the backyard beside this pile of sugar like it was the great divide and we had somehow survived a border war.
Maybe we did.
He stared at it for around three or four minutes and then shook his head at it and said ants and then went and got out the hose. I guess we'll be growing sweetgrass this year.
Should be fun.
Stood on the corner for a while
To wait for the wind to blow down on me
Hoping it takes with it my old ways
And brings some brand new look upon me
Oh it's taking so long I could be wrong, I could be ready
Oh but if I take my heart's advice
I should assume it's still unsteady
I am in repair
I am in repair
The line is drawn here and there will be no steps back now, okay, princess?
Okay, Jake.
We're going to be fine.
I know we are.
Why?
Because we want it.
How bad?
So, so bad, Jake.
Yeah, princess. So bad.
By now we're whispering to each other, heads together and standing in the backyard beside this pile of sugar like it was the great divide and we had somehow survived a border war.
Maybe we did.
He stared at it for around three or four minutes and then shook his head at it and said ants and then went and got out the hose. I guess we'll be growing sweetgrass this year.
Should be fun.
Stood on the corner for a while
To wait for the wind to blow down on me
Hoping it takes with it my old ways
And brings some brand new look upon me
Oh it's taking so long I could be wrong, I could be ready
Oh but if I take my heart's advice
I should assume it's still unsteady
I am in repair
I am in repair
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Torch songs.
So what do you think?
It's beautiful! Who does it belong to?
Me.
You're joking, right?
No, I bought it. Because you made fun of my tiny apartment.
Oh my god. Seriously, Jacob.
I am serious, Bridget.
Wow. Then you did really well. I didn't think you had any money.
Well I don't anymore.
I was standing on the polished wood floor of a living room that had a wall that was all windows. The windows overlooked the ocean, straight out, facing east so there was no land as far as your eyes could see on the horizon. It wasn't a huge house, two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom and a great room that was a kitchen with a breakfast bar and the huge living room. He paid for the view and the beachfrontage, I think and the fact that it had a roof was just the icing on the cake.
We had an awkward, tension-filled dinner one night. Back in 1999 once the shock of death wore off and my pregnancy advanced and we settled in as fledgling best friends, Jacob knew I spent my nights alone and he invited me to dinner, he said he wanted to cook for me.
Jacob is not a legendary chef by any means, but I relished his company and so I agreed and he offered to pick me up from work and bring me over to his apartment for dinner and then drive me home afterward.
At 5 pm I left work and he was there. Standing by the door with his truck parked a bit of the way up the hill. He took my bag and extended his arm and we walked to the truck. He opened the door for me and made nice small talk on the way back out of the city.
He reminded me where he lived and mentioned he was looking for a house closer to the south shore, maybe on the water, because he grew up on the water in Newfoundland.
I smiled and told him I loved the beach. I lived for the beach, for the ocean. It was my comfort.
Surprisingly it turned out that he lived about 10 minutes past where I did, along the harbour. I was on his way back and forth to the university.
He introduced me to his tiny apartment, cluttered with stacks of books and CDs. He owned a desk, a table, a bed and a stereo, wedged into two tiny rooms with a bathroom and a kitchen somehow built out of no space at all. When he was standing there was no room for me to stand beside him. He hung up my coat and put the satchel by the door and pulled a chair out from the table for me.
He smiled and asked if I was thirsty. I said I was and he pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. The pitcher still had the sticker on the outside and I could see his hands shaking as he poured.
Why are you nervous?
Am I?
You're positively quivering.
Been a while since I had a da-friend over for a meal.
Ah.
Tell me about things, Bridget.
Okay. My new friend is weirdly nervous around me and he shouldn't be, because I'm having a nice time.
Aw, geez, Bridge. Tell me how you really feel.
Are you psychoanalyzing me?
No, are you?
Of course not. My expertise is in financial affairs.
Maybe I should let you do my taxes.
I'd be happy to.
Would you like to help with dinner? I could use a pot-stirrer.
Oh, I've been called that before, let me get it.
He started cracking jokes while he sawed up the bread to butter it and I dutifully stirred pots of pasta and sauce. I laughed, I was wide awake, I wasn't mourning anymore, he was like a breath of fresh air. There was barely room for both of us to stand and yet we did, and we ignored the overwhelming tension between us, a connection I still can't adequately describe. Every time my hand moved to the left I would bump elbows with him. When he laughed I could feel his breath on my hair. It sent shivers right through me.
We ate slowly and talked for hours. Before I knew it I was almost falling asleep on my plate and Jacob smiled and suggested we call it a night. We both stood up and cracked heads. I winced. He asked me if I was okay and then he rubbed my head and stopped cold, as if we both realized at once that it was not right to be so close and yet we were, albeit with hesitation.
You're a big guy, you need a bigger place.
That's why I invited you over now, before your belly starts to get in our way.
Oh, so it's me.
No, I'm teasing, Bridge.
So why did you really invite me over?
I hate to eat alone.
Oh, okay.
And because you eat alone.
So?
That's sad.
That's life. Sometimes couples work opposite hours.
He handed me my coat and helped me into it and I stuck my arm through the sleeve and accidentally punched him square in the chest. He laughed.
Maybe you should come to my place for dinner next time.
No, I don't think Cole would want that.
Well, this room is going to be too tiny soon. I can't fasten my skirts anymore.
How do you keep them up?
I have hips now.
So I need a bigger place if I want to keep having dinner with you?
Yeah, I think so.
Then maybe I'll find something you might like, right on the beach if that's what you like most.
I thought he was kidding, to humor me. We didn't say much on the drive back to the apartment I shared with Cole. I felt a little strange about his intensity and I think he realized it had become a bit awkward. When he walked me to my door he said that maybe sometime we could do it again, and he kissed my hand and squeezed it and then left when I went inside. I was aware that he had backed off significantly from when we were at his place but I was slightly relieved because when he gets intense I always felt like I was unable to control my attraction to him.
I knew I was falling. Falling hard.
We chatted superficially on the phone a few times a week and met for coffee each Friday for the next two months and then one evening he called and asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. I did, and so he picked me up and we drove for 30 minutes down the shore to this beautiful house.
I still couldn't believe he now owned this view.
So, do you want to go down and see my beach?
Sure, let's go.
He took my hand and I followed him down the steps off the deck and onto the sand. There were torches lit and stuck in the sand and a blanket spread on the sand with a picnic basket. A radio playing songs I don't even remember now, and how often does that ever happen?
He looked at me in the twilight and asked me if this was enough room for us to have dinner.
Oh wow.
He made peanut butter and jelly. He said because it keeps well and he needed something that did for his surprise. And lemonade in bottles because he said he knew I liked it last time. And it seemed like that moment when we both acknowledged the intensity of our friendship and gave up trying to fight it everything changed again and the electricity that had charged the air before quieted down just enough so that we found a comfortable place somewhere past best friends and on to surrogate spouses, permanent company, sought comfort.
It still remains the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I ever had. He maintains the best part was the tiny bit of peanut butter he kissed off the corner of my mouth before we left to drive back to the city.
Sometimes I miss that house, sometimes he does too, but he said it was infused with a frustration after I would leave that made him grow to resent it and so it becomes just another part of our forbidden history and that's why he bought the cottage instead. So we could have our view back, and our beach picnics back, with no painful memories stuck in the sand like torches on a warm spring evening.
It's beautiful! Who does it belong to?
Me.
You're joking, right?
No, I bought it. Because you made fun of my tiny apartment.
Oh my god. Seriously, Jacob.
I am serious, Bridget.
Wow. Then you did really well. I didn't think you had any money.
Well I don't anymore.
I was standing on the polished wood floor of a living room that had a wall that was all windows. The windows overlooked the ocean, straight out, facing east so there was no land as far as your eyes could see on the horizon. It wasn't a huge house, two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom and a great room that was a kitchen with a breakfast bar and the huge living room. He paid for the view and the beachfrontage, I think and the fact that it had a roof was just the icing on the cake.
We had an awkward, tension-filled dinner one night. Back in 1999 once the shock of death wore off and my pregnancy advanced and we settled in as fledgling best friends, Jacob knew I spent my nights alone and he invited me to dinner, he said he wanted to cook for me.
Jacob is not a legendary chef by any means, but I relished his company and so I agreed and he offered to pick me up from work and bring me over to his apartment for dinner and then drive me home afterward.
At 5 pm I left work and he was there. Standing by the door with his truck parked a bit of the way up the hill. He took my bag and extended his arm and we walked to the truck. He opened the door for me and made nice small talk on the way back out of the city.
He reminded me where he lived and mentioned he was looking for a house closer to the south shore, maybe on the water, because he grew up on the water in Newfoundland.
I smiled and told him I loved the beach. I lived for the beach, for the ocean. It was my comfort.
Surprisingly it turned out that he lived about 10 minutes past where I did, along the harbour. I was on his way back and forth to the university.
He introduced me to his tiny apartment, cluttered with stacks of books and CDs. He owned a desk, a table, a bed and a stereo, wedged into two tiny rooms with a bathroom and a kitchen somehow built out of no space at all. When he was standing there was no room for me to stand beside him. He hung up my coat and put the satchel by the door and pulled a chair out from the table for me.
He smiled and asked if I was thirsty. I said I was and he pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. The pitcher still had the sticker on the outside and I could see his hands shaking as he poured.
Why are you nervous?
Am I?
You're positively quivering.
Been a while since I had a da-friend over for a meal.
Ah.
Tell me about things, Bridget.
Okay. My new friend is weirdly nervous around me and he shouldn't be, because I'm having a nice time.
Aw, geez, Bridge. Tell me how you really feel.
Are you psychoanalyzing me?
No, are you?
Of course not. My expertise is in financial affairs.
Maybe I should let you do my taxes.
I'd be happy to.
Would you like to help with dinner? I could use a pot-stirrer.
Oh, I've been called that before, let me get it.
He started cracking jokes while he sawed up the bread to butter it and I dutifully stirred pots of pasta and sauce. I laughed, I was wide awake, I wasn't mourning anymore, he was like a breath of fresh air. There was barely room for both of us to stand and yet we did, and we ignored the overwhelming tension between us, a connection I still can't adequately describe. Every time my hand moved to the left I would bump elbows with him. When he laughed I could feel his breath on my hair. It sent shivers right through me.
We ate slowly and talked for hours. Before I knew it I was almost falling asleep on my plate and Jacob smiled and suggested we call it a night. We both stood up and cracked heads. I winced. He asked me if I was okay and then he rubbed my head and stopped cold, as if we both realized at once that it was not right to be so close and yet we were, albeit with hesitation.
You're a big guy, you need a bigger place.
That's why I invited you over now, before your belly starts to get in our way.
Oh, so it's me.
No, I'm teasing, Bridge.
So why did you really invite me over?
I hate to eat alone.
Oh, okay.
And because you eat alone.
So?
That's sad.
That's life. Sometimes couples work opposite hours.
He handed me my coat and helped me into it and I stuck my arm through the sleeve and accidentally punched him square in the chest. He laughed.
Maybe you should come to my place for dinner next time.
No, I don't think Cole would want that.
Well, this room is going to be too tiny soon. I can't fasten my skirts anymore.
How do you keep them up?
I have hips now.
So I need a bigger place if I want to keep having dinner with you?
Yeah, I think so.
Then maybe I'll find something you might like, right on the beach if that's what you like most.
I thought he was kidding, to humor me. We didn't say much on the drive back to the apartment I shared with Cole. I felt a little strange about his intensity and I think he realized it had become a bit awkward. When he walked me to my door he said that maybe sometime we could do it again, and he kissed my hand and squeezed it and then left when I went inside. I was aware that he had backed off significantly from when we were at his place but I was slightly relieved because when he gets intense I always felt like I was unable to control my attraction to him.
I knew I was falling. Falling hard.
We chatted superficially on the phone a few times a week and met for coffee each Friday for the next two months and then one evening he called and asked me if I wanted to go for a drive. I did, and so he picked me up and we drove for 30 minutes down the shore to this beautiful house.
I still couldn't believe he now owned this view.
So, do you want to go down and see my beach?
Sure, let's go.
He took my hand and I followed him down the steps off the deck and onto the sand. There were torches lit and stuck in the sand and a blanket spread on the sand with a picnic basket. A radio playing songs I don't even remember now, and how often does that ever happen?
He looked at me in the twilight and asked me if this was enough room for us to have dinner.
Oh wow.
He made peanut butter and jelly. He said because it keeps well and he needed something that did for his surprise. And lemonade in bottles because he said he knew I liked it last time. And it seemed like that moment when we both acknowledged the intensity of our friendship and gave up trying to fight it everything changed again and the electricity that had charged the air before quieted down just enough so that we found a comfortable place somewhere past best friends and on to surrogate spouses, permanent company, sought comfort.
It still remains the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I ever had. He maintains the best part was the tiny bit of peanut butter he kissed off the corner of my mouth before we left to drive back to the city.
Sometimes I miss that house, sometimes he does too, but he said it was infused with a frustration after I would leave that made him grow to resent it and so it becomes just another part of our forbidden history and that's why he bought the cottage instead. So we could have our view back, and our beach picnics back, with no painful memories stuck in the sand like torches on a warm spring evening.
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
What I did today.
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely
means that I don't know
You would almost expect to find Jacob walking around singing those lyrics, wouldn't you? Yes, I would too. He is, nonstop.
Loch pointed out in a phone call that I never write about what I'm doing.
I don't get how you can write three pages of how you feel without once pointing out a single action. Oh, aside from him kissing you. Christ, Bridge.
Loch is gently kidding me. But it might be true anyway because I rarely talk about how I'm spending my time. Maybe it's a omission in error, maybe it's on purpose. I have no idea. But since it's not a mommy blog, or a family blog, or even a therapy blog, it seems to be a tiny bit of everything, leaning very heavily on the aspect of a very personal place for me in which I can say and do say..anything. Everything. I sit down and something winds up here. I wish I could plan it a little better but it plans me.
And I don't care who reads it and I'm no longer so concerned about what you think of it. If I want to explore the incredible news that I feel better for eighteen weeks in a row then oh boy, will you ever be bored.
If it all turns to porn, well, aren't you lucky.
(Of course it will, don't be silly.)
Christian said Jacob's entry from seven years back made him sound like a gentleman stalker. If so, then he was the most unproductive stalker ever born, because never once did he stand outside my window in the pouring rain looking at my house, like the guy in that Maroon 5 song. That guy was a stalker.
I have a laundry list of similar things for him, romantic gestures he hasn't made (yet), like rowing a boat for me or having my name tattoed on his chest. It's a fun joke between us. I've also never picked him up at work wearing only a trench coat with nothing underneath, something he teases me about. Usually because when I used to walk down to meet him I would either have the kids with me or wind up taking off a coat for an hour to answer phones, do some filing or water plants. Or the fact that I don't own a trench coat. Or the fact that his office is a church but hey, we've already christened it so did it matter if I started in a dress anyway?
He laughed and said it didn't, and besides, had he stood outside our house in the rain as some sort of sentry yearning for my heart, Cole would have come out and started swinging.
No, instead Jacob was always warmly welcomed in, so maybe he did do that, starting out. It was a brief stand then, and he is off the hook.
And please, every man I know inhales a woman as she comes within a certain closeness. Men do that. Women don't do it until they are holding a man. It's a fundamental difference, but it's there.
Did you want me to write that we play Mystery Tea in the evenings now? I have fifty teabags I can't identify. I must have been seriously loopy the day I took them all out of their boxes and put them into a large square tin so that I would have everything together, being a serial organizer. Only the earl grey had tags, the rest are a motley bunch. So each night after dinner I make us each a cup of tea and then Jacob will take a sip and contemplate it for a few moments and then exclaim something silly like,
Oh! This would be green.
Or,
This is the spicy chai, I do believe.
In an Irish-Newfie accent.
And so I laugh and the next night follows suit with cinnamon or Chinese black. We have rhythms and routines and lover's rituals and near sexual satisfaction now and no, I didn't write about sex with cracked ribs because it was a given that we became experts at Bridget-injured sex almost a year ago and so we picked up familiar patterns and it's a little frustrating but I'm going to save that for another day. It needs a separate post. The progress, not some detailed paragraph on how we manage, no worries.
Of course...this is Bridget's journal so I shy away from nothing. No apologies for that, you know me better than that by now.
In the evenings over the winter we would put the kids to bed and then pop in a movie and snuggle together and sometimes I would watch a movie alone if Jacob had work to do. Or we'd retire to the den to just talk, or sometimes hit the floor of the living room because he builds nice, perfect fires to lounge around and we'd talk some more. For some reason we can talk forever. We always could. There's been few examples of times where we had to search for things to say but being together has unleashed a verbal waterfall. Or perhaps we're making up for lost time, for all the things we couldn't say.
Now that the warmer weather has come we find ourselves sitting on the front steps so we can watch people stroll by with their dogs and their strollers (which is very very hard because I would be eight months..no, I'm not going there. Not now) and we speak for a few moments always and it's so nice to feel a warm breeze and watch the sky turn to fire and then lavender and then darkest blue.
And Jake is an incredibly hands-on dad. He asks the kids for help and input on so much. He lets them put bows in his beard. He gets down on his belly full-length on Ruth's floor with from the knees down hanging out into the hall and tries to put outfits on her Barbie dolls and then holds ballroom dancing sessions for them. For the record he does not know how to ballroom dance, so we are perfect for each other, because I have no use for that. I'll take my darkened-house midnight waltzes any old time. He and Henry spend hours building model planes and perfecting their jokes to tell the girls (Ruth and I). And they sneak through the kitchen stealing cookies or apples every chance they get. They call it snack-recon. It's a riot.
I'm usually a tornado, twisting through the house in the usual balancing act of meals, cleaning, laundry, budget, chores, disaster declarations, though now I have full-time help with everything. He was a capable bachelor, and so he never moved in expecting me to do anything, though I go and do it anyway because he didn't have time to do laundry or make a meal if he was in all-day meetings or double-booked counselling. Or certification testing. Or dedication rehearsals. Or the myriad of other stuff. When he opens the drawer in our bureau and finds a stack of clean hemp t-shirts he thanks me like I'm doing him a favor.
I simply remind him it's easy to do laundry while I write. I can do just about anything and write at the same time.
I want to take care of Jacob. Which is harder than I expected, because he is capable with a capital C and that is no match for me. He says I do, but it's about more than shirts. He says I fill his heart and his soul and he sleeps at night and he does, he doesn't thrash all over the place anymore in his sleep, did you know that? No, because I didn't tell you but I fail to see sometimes how just being here is taking care of him. He insists.
And then he repeats it until I let it go.
And he has been my biggest fan. When I met Jacob I wasn't so much a writer, I was a white-collar banker smashing my head repeatedly on a glass ceiling that would never break. I was sexually harassed and overburdened and unpaid and when Ruth was born I realized I could never go back and so I started writing and Jacob was my first critic/editor. Yes, he is thanked in the acknowledgements, always. He wants to read everything I write, even if it's nothing special. He takes it seriously and personally. Sometimes it creates arguments, sometimes it gives him a new appreciation for who I am. Nothing impresses him more than this journal, maybe because it's about us, or maybe he enjoys seeing himself through my eyes. He won't confirm or deny. But I have no trepidation over taking anything I've written to him, good or bad, for first pickings, because he's been there since word one.
I like that, word one.
And today I have a headache, so will be diving into the mystery tea just as soon as this pot of coffee is gone.
Oh, and I have the shakes. Which is fun, a side-effect of the DTs from the medication leaving my body. I feel whole. I feel real. I feel pretty fucking good today. Even with the slight flutter.
I can't wait to tell Claus when I see him later this morning. He will be pleased.
I don't mind spending everyday
Out on your corner in the pouring rain
Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
She will be loved. Oh yes, you bet she will.
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely
means that I don't know
You would almost expect to find Jacob walking around singing those lyrics, wouldn't you? Yes, I would too. He is, nonstop.
Loch pointed out in a phone call that I never write about what I'm doing.
I don't get how you can write three pages of how you feel without once pointing out a single action. Oh, aside from him kissing you. Christ, Bridge.
Loch is gently kidding me. But it might be true anyway because I rarely talk about how I'm spending my time. Maybe it's a omission in error, maybe it's on purpose. I have no idea. But since it's not a mommy blog, or a family blog, or even a therapy blog, it seems to be a tiny bit of everything, leaning very heavily on the aspect of a very personal place for me in which I can say and do say..anything. Everything. I sit down and something winds up here. I wish I could plan it a little better but it plans me.
And I don't care who reads it and I'm no longer so concerned about what you think of it. If I want to explore the incredible news that I feel better for eighteen weeks in a row then oh boy, will you ever be bored.
If it all turns to porn, well, aren't you lucky.
(Of course it will, don't be silly.)
Christian said Jacob's entry from seven years back made him sound like a gentleman stalker. If so, then he was the most unproductive stalker ever born, because never once did he stand outside my window in the pouring rain looking at my house, like the guy in that Maroon 5 song. That guy was a stalker.
I have a laundry list of similar things for him, romantic gestures he hasn't made (yet), like rowing a boat for me or having my name tattoed on his chest. It's a fun joke between us. I've also never picked him up at work wearing only a trench coat with nothing underneath, something he teases me about. Usually because when I used to walk down to meet him I would either have the kids with me or wind up taking off a coat for an hour to answer phones, do some filing or water plants. Or the fact that I don't own a trench coat. Or the fact that his office is a church but hey, we've already christened it so did it matter if I started in a dress anyway?
He laughed and said it didn't, and besides, had he stood outside our house in the rain as some sort of sentry yearning for my heart, Cole would have come out and started swinging.
No, instead Jacob was always warmly welcomed in, so maybe he did do that, starting out. It was a brief stand then, and he is off the hook.
And please, every man I know inhales a woman as she comes within a certain closeness. Men do that. Women don't do it until they are holding a man. It's a fundamental difference, but it's there.
Did you want me to write that we play Mystery Tea in the evenings now? I have fifty teabags I can't identify. I must have been seriously loopy the day I took them all out of their boxes and put them into a large square tin so that I would have everything together, being a serial organizer. Only the earl grey had tags, the rest are a motley bunch. So each night after dinner I make us each a cup of tea and then Jacob will take a sip and contemplate it for a few moments and then exclaim something silly like,
Oh! This would be green.
Or,
This is the spicy chai, I do believe.
In an Irish-Newfie accent.
And so I laugh and the next night follows suit with cinnamon or Chinese black. We have rhythms and routines and lover's rituals and near sexual satisfaction now and no, I didn't write about sex with cracked ribs because it was a given that we became experts at Bridget-injured sex almost a year ago and so we picked up familiar patterns and it's a little frustrating but I'm going to save that for another day. It needs a separate post. The progress, not some detailed paragraph on how we manage, no worries.
Of course...this is Bridget's journal so I shy away from nothing. No apologies for that, you know me better than that by now.
In the evenings over the winter we would put the kids to bed and then pop in a movie and snuggle together and sometimes I would watch a movie alone if Jacob had work to do. Or we'd retire to the den to just talk, or sometimes hit the floor of the living room because he builds nice, perfect fires to lounge around and we'd talk some more. For some reason we can talk forever. We always could. There's been few examples of times where we had to search for things to say but being together has unleashed a verbal waterfall. Or perhaps we're making up for lost time, for all the things we couldn't say.
Now that the warmer weather has come we find ourselves sitting on the front steps so we can watch people stroll by with their dogs and their strollers (which is very very hard because I would be eight months..no, I'm not going there. Not now) and we speak for a few moments always and it's so nice to feel a warm breeze and watch the sky turn to fire and then lavender and then darkest blue.
And Jake is an incredibly hands-on dad. He asks the kids for help and input on so much. He lets them put bows in his beard. He gets down on his belly full-length on Ruth's floor with from the knees down hanging out into the hall and tries to put outfits on her Barbie dolls and then holds ballroom dancing sessions for them. For the record he does not know how to ballroom dance, so we are perfect for each other, because I have no use for that. I'll take my darkened-house midnight waltzes any old time. He and Henry spend hours building model planes and perfecting their jokes to tell the girls (Ruth and I). And they sneak through the kitchen stealing cookies or apples every chance they get. They call it snack-recon. It's a riot.
I'm usually a tornado, twisting through the house in the usual balancing act of meals, cleaning, laundry, budget, chores, disaster declarations, though now I have full-time help with everything. He was a capable bachelor, and so he never moved in expecting me to do anything, though I go and do it anyway because he didn't have time to do laundry or make a meal if he was in all-day meetings or double-booked counselling. Or certification testing. Or dedication rehearsals. Or the myriad of other stuff. When he opens the drawer in our bureau and finds a stack of clean hemp t-shirts he thanks me like I'm doing him a favor.
I simply remind him it's easy to do laundry while I write. I can do just about anything and write at the same time.
I want to take care of Jacob. Which is harder than I expected, because he is capable with a capital C and that is no match for me. He says I do, but it's about more than shirts. He says I fill his heart and his soul and he sleeps at night and he does, he doesn't thrash all over the place anymore in his sleep, did you know that? No, because I didn't tell you but I fail to see sometimes how just being here is taking care of him. He insists.
And then he repeats it until I let it go.
And he has been my biggest fan. When I met Jacob I wasn't so much a writer, I was a white-collar banker smashing my head repeatedly on a glass ceiling that would never break. I was sexually harassed and overburdened and unpaid and when Ruth was born I realized I could never go back and so I started writing and Jacob was my first critic/editor. Yes, he is thanked in the acknowledgements, always. He wants to read everything I write, even if it's nothing special. He takes it seriously and personally. Sometimes it creates arguments, sometimes it gives him a new appreciation for who I am. Nothing impresses him more than this journal, maybe because it's about us, or maybe he enjoys seeing himself through my eyes. He won't confirm or deny. But I have no trepidation over taking anything I've written to him, good or bad, for first pickings, because he's been there since word one.
I like that, word one.
And today I have a headache, so will be diving into the mystery tea just as soon as this pot of coffee is gone.
Oh, and I have the shakes. Which is fun, a side-effect of the DTs from the medication leaving my body. I feel whole. I feel real. I feel pretty fucking good today. Even with the slight flutter.
I can't wait to tell Claus when I see him later this morning. He will be pleased.
I don't mind spending everyday
Out on your corner in the pouring rain
Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
She will be loved. Oh yes, you bet she will.
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
Voyeurism Tuesday.
Because I love you, and I'm not kidding when I talk about how this was meant to be. A permitted excerpt from Jacob's old-fashioned paper journal (note the date because he went and dug it out after he read today's entry):
Monday, April 10, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia
I think I have a new goal in life, her name is Bridget. She is difficult, impulsive, stubborn, beautiful. I spend enough time with her that I am surprised that I spend so much of our time apart with her still on my mind. She has a hold on me. I don't know what it is. We have settled into a platonic routine but I still covet every second I can touch her, smell her, be the recipient of her attention or her smile. She's been leaving me phone messages all week for fun-I can't even remember how many times I have listened to them just to hear her laugh at the end when she says goodbye. Being in love with my best friend is a curse. Having her know and do nothing about it is torture. It's agony knowing she loves me. This can't end well but I don't push her. It is a goal I could never follow up on and so I torture myself with inactivity, then I torture myself with regret. The only time she is mine is in my dreams and dreams so rarely come true.
It appears that dreams do come true, Jake. They did for me, too.
And...spooky!
Monday, April 10, 2000
Halifax, Nova Scotia
I think I have a new goal in life, her name is Bridget. She is difficult, impulsive, stubborn, beautiful. I spend enough time with her that I am surprised that I spend so much of our time apart with her still on my mind. She has a hold on me. I don't know what it is. We have settled into a platonic routine but I still covet every second I can touch her, smell her, be the recipient of her attention or her smile. She's been leaving me phone messages all week for fun-I can't even remember how many times I have listened to them just to hear her laugh at the end when she says goodbye. Being in love with my best friend is a curse. Having her know and do nothing about it is torture. It's agony knowing she loves me. This can't end well but I don't push her. It is a goal I could never follow up on and so I torture myself with inactivity, then I torture myself with regret. The only time she is mine is in my dreams and dreams so rarely come true.
It appears that dreams do come true, Jake. They did for me, too.
And...spooky!
Offroad girl.
I'll beg for you
You know I'll beg for you
Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath, I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me
Ask if you can bring a friend
Pick a flower, hold your breath
And drift away
No, I'm not about to unleash a torrent of admissions upon you. No, I am not falling into a low. No, I'm not having too difficult of a time coming down off the medications. No, I haven't done anything wrong.
In fact, everything is wonderful. Life has become the fairytale I wanted. The one that I was meant for. The one about me.
Minus the lingering doubts.
Last night I had one of those blisteringly cathartic sobfests. Usually my method of crying is a quivering lower lip and some giant tears that well up and spill over my cheeks and I'll wipe them away in an impatient haste on the back of my fist and keeping on fighting through it. But then sometimes I am reduced to the point where my whole face becomes pink and stained with so many tears as if water has been splashed on my skin and it becomes hard to breathe as I choke through endless sobs and shake all over. I simply laid my head against Jacob's chest and he wrapped his arms around me and tucked his head down beside mine and just squeezed and I let it all out until there was nothing left. One of those good cries.
I wake up in the mornings not believing my luck, relishing the shiver of anticipation when he touches me and sleepily smiles at me, so full of love and he wants nothing else ever. He has relaxed, he has unwound just enough and he is now fully immersed in his self-induced caretaker vacation in order to see me better once and for all and the only thing that will take him away for any length of time will be his chaplain shifts and anytime he goes out with the guys, to pick up wood or help someone with their truck repairs or go out for lunch, or to his own therapy sessions, separate from mine and from our joint ones, to deal with his temper, to find balance between his obsessiveness and his distance, to help him be a better person as if that were somehow possible. That would be like trying to perfect the smoothness of an egg to me.
I said that and was treated to that loud goofy guffaw laugh that he punctuates with his dimples.
And I want nothing else ever, just him. This is sort of like the moment in your life (if you've ever had this moment you'll understand what I mean) when you pick up your Life Goals list and cross off the big one at the top, you know, the one that you wrote down for fits and giggles, knowing full well that you'd never achieve it, but wouldn't it be nice.
And then you do.
Suddenly I'm faced with needing a few new goals, I've worked my way through a lofty assortment of them and my list is now a clean slate, almost, I'm just waiting for my man in the white coat to come along with his dustpan and sweep away the remaining particles of the waning stress, the grit of dealing with a life that had so many hairpin curves for a while there, I wound up carsick and then crushed, wrapped around tree somewhere down the embankment, far out of sight of rescue.
And then I dug my fingers into the crumbling dirt on the side of that hill and pulled myself back up and noticed the rest of the road was straight. I wiped the trickle of blood off my temple and felt around for all my pieces. I looked behind me and saw that I was pushed up, helped, pulled and dragged by my hands. He has traction in life, guys.
And do you know something? Bridget is still intact. Whole.
Complete, even.
Fully intact and only slightly dented and misshapen and bruised, on the inside, fading now, and it does absolutely nothing to counteract the brimming love that just spills over and over and is a fountain inside my soul.
This is very good. Cheer for me, would you? Just the tiniest of hurrahs would suffice and I will be ever so grateful.
Sometimes I want to tell you that I don't believe it was Jacob's goal in life to ever wind up with a wife so fragile and weak, that his strength would dissolve like ice in hot water when confronted with a princess made of glass, his resolve crumbling, unable to resist. I take my place in history as the one weakness of his magnificent design. The one goal he ever had. The one person he ever wanted so badly that he would shove everything else to one side to get it, taking risks he wouldn't normally take, acting out in ways so uncharacteristic of the sweet and goofy handsome preacher boy, making promises that he has woven into the finest silk, goals rubbed and polished to a shine so bright we went blind somewhere along that long, dangerous road.
Sometimes I want to tell you that I don't think I deserve this, him, anything good. Sometimes I want to scream with frustration at not doing things better, not acting faster, not trying harder.
Not being tougher.
Sometimes I want to point out that I may never live up to the image of me that he keeps in his mind. I'm still sure he sees her, not me. The potential of who I could be, instead of the mess that I am.
And when I tell him that, he simply smiles and kisses my face and tells me to hush, and reminds me that we're two now, we're together, we're it, and I am everything to him, whole or fractured. And that we will fix it and if we don't that's okay too, because he can hold me in his arms without guilt, and I can be in his arms without fear. And that the whole mess is wrapped in love and love can fix anything.
Just wait and see, princess.
I will.
That's good. Because I love you.
I love you too.
You know I'll beg for you
Pick a song and sing a yellow nectarine
Take a bath, I'll drink the water that you leave
If you should die before me
Ask if you can bring a friend
Pick a flower, hold your breath
And drift away
No, I'm not about to unleash a torrent of admissions upon you. No, I am not falling into a low. No, I'm not having too difficult of a time coming down off the medications. No, I haven't done anything wrong.
In fact, everything is wonderful. Life has become the fairytale I wanted. The one that I was meant for. The one about me.
Minus the lingering doubts.
Last night I had one of those blisteringly cathartic sobfests. Usually my method of crying is a quivering lower lip and some giant tears that well up and spill over my cheeks and I'll wipe them away in an impatient haste on the back of my fist and keeping on fighting through it. But then sometimes I am reduced to the point where my whole face becomes pink and stained with so many tears as if water has been splashed on my skin and it becomes hard to breathe as I choke through endless sobs and shake all over. I simply laid my head against Jacob's chest and he wrapped his arms around me and tucked his head down beside mine and just squeezed and I let it all out until there was nothing left. One of those good cries.
I wake up in the mornings not believing my luck, relishing the shiver of anticipation when he touches me and sleepily smiles at me, so full of love and he wants nothing else ever. He has relaxed, he has unwound just enough and he is now fully immersed in his self-induced caretaker vacation in order to see me better once and for all and the only thing that will take him away for any length of time will be his chaplain shifts and anytime he goes out with the guys, to pick up wood or help someone with their truck repairs or go out for lunch, or to his own therapy sessions, separate from mine and from our joint ones, to deal with his temper, to find balance between his obsessiveness and his distance, to help him be a better person as if that were somehow possible. That would be like trying to perfect the smoothness of an egg to me.
I said that and was treated to that loud goofy guffaw laugh that he punctuates with his dimples.
And I want nothing else ever, just him. This is sort of like the moment in your life (if you've ever had this moment you'll understand what I mean) when you pick up your Life Goals list and cross off the big one at the top, you know, the one that you wrote down for fits and giggles, knowing full well that you'd never achieve it, but wouldn't it be nice.
And then you do.
Suddenly I'm faced with needing a few new goals, I've worked my way through a lofty assortment of them and my list is now a clean slate, almost, I'm just waiting for my man in the white coat to come along with his dustpan and sweep away the remaining particles of the waning stress, the grit of dealing with a life that had so many hairpin curves for a while there, I wound up carsick and then crushed, wrapped around tree somewhere down the embankment, far out of sight of rescue.
And then I dug my fingers into the crumbling dirt on the side of that hill and pulled myself back up and noticed the rest of the road was straight. I wiped the trickle of blood off my temple and felt around for all my pieces. I looked behind me and saw that I was pushed up, helped, pulled and dragged by my hands. He has traction in life, guys.
And do you know something? Bridget is still intact. Whole.
Complete, even.
Fully intact and only slightly dented and misshapen and bruised, on the inside, fading now, and it does absolutely nothing to counteract the brimming love that just spills over and over and is a fountain inside my soul.
This is very good. Cheer for me, would you? Just the tiniest of hurrahs would suffice and I will be ever so grateful.
Sometimes I want to tell you that I don't believe it was Jacob's goal in life to ever wind up with a wife so fragile and weak, that his strength would dissolve like ice in hot water when confronted with a princess made of glass, his resolve crumbling, unable to resist. I take my place in history as the one weakness of his magnificent design. The one goal he ever had. The one person he ever wanted so badly that he would shove everything else to one side to get it, taking risks he wouldn't normally take, acting out in ways so uncharacteristic of the sweet and goofy handsome preacher boy, making promises that he has woven into the finest silk, goals rubbed and polished to a shine so bright we went blind somewhere along that long, dangerous road.
Sometimes I want to tell you that I don't think I deserve this, him, anything good. Sometimes I want to scream with frustration at not doing things better, not acting faster, not trying harder.
Not being tougher.
Sometimes I want to point out that I may never live up to the image of me that he keeps in his mind. I'm still sure he sees her, not me. The potential of who I could be, instead of the mess that I am.
And when I tell him that, he simply smiles and kisses my face and tells me to hush, and reminds me that we're two now, we're together, we're it, and I am everything to him, whole or fractured. And that we will fix it and if we don't that's okay too, because he can hold me in his arms without guilt, and I can be in his arms without fear. And that the whole mess is wrapped in love and love can fix anything.
Just wait and see, princess.
I will.
That's good. Because I love you.
I love you too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)