Out of Tune Together

Let's not talk about why I cry all the time lately (pregnancy is a good enough answer to that). My record of our summer trips to Yosemite, Utah and New York can wait a few days too. I just feel.... That's all. I feel. I don't like it. I like to explain and feel rational, and I don't like to lean on emotions; they fall apart. Emotions cannot be trusted! I have always known this to be true, and yet. They trick me!

I like a plan, to a point. But only as much as I like to throw out one plan in favor of another. And right now, in trimester number three, this need to accomplish on a turbo level is tormenting me. Too many plans, not enough energy. Like anyone planning to welcome a new family member, I have an idea of how things should be (the house, the family, the brilliant daily existence, the future) and I'm reminded again of the ideas I had before my other baby girls were born. I have to wonder how true I have been to my vision; how many of those plans I've been able to realize and to what extent. Failure is obvious, merciless and real. Introspection is the worst! Stop doing it!

Trying to rationalize and explain brings me to this: a lack of focus threatens me in summer, and this summer more than most because I'm growing a human while also trying to be a human. Yeah, I miss my mom at these times and feel pretty weepy about it. And yeah, my blood is flooded with hostile hormones. I might argue that this is not a good time for introspection. And yet.

I fear I am wasting my life, and I hate waste.

But that's silly. But still. Don't you sometimes feel this way? Isn't feeling the absolute worst? I resolve to cut way back when my chemicals are back in balance. In the meantime, I will be over here brooding and watching broody movies about death and endings; you know, to prepare for my newborn's first breath.

On the subject of movies, check out Christopher Walken's speech to a group of music students at the beginning of A Late Quartet (see Netflix, thank you very much, Netflix). And imagine us on a Sunday afternoon: me brooding and lethargic, the girls a bit lost without an anchor of activity or purpose, and a husband thinking (who knows what?) trying to simultaneously keep things going and get a little weekend rest. It's a melancholy recipe, all of us going slowly out of tune together. I write this down because I figure my daughters will eventually--and maybe soon--start to notice on a conscious level that I spend whole afternoons acting out a funky silent soliloquy, like a ghost in the house. And they're going to want to know why, and I don't want them thinking it's anything more than what it is: a pause between movements when the musicians need to stop and tune their instruments.

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This post is symbolically, but not literally, archived under the forgiving subject heading, "The Pregnancy Diaries."

Please forgive me.