The boys are getting ready to go to a barbecue--all of them cute and hyper in red, white, and blue. I'm not going. Backache. But of course I'm relishing the thought of being home alone for hours to do anything I want. That's my idea of freedom! I tell myself I 'm gonna start with a naked dance while I eat ice-cream. Oh yeah!
Finally they leave. My big son's kind words linger: "Take it easy mommy. Rest your back." I respond a little absentmindedly, "Thanks baby, watch out for your brothers."
The van takes off, and I strip off every piece of clothing. I start my dance towards the ice-cream. It's a mock conga line kick: "ta-ta ta-ta taaa-ta, ta-ta ta-ta taaa-ta." Somewhere along the way I spot a mirror and stop to admire.
Holy shit! But is when these get so? When did they get from 38D to THIS? Yes, the ass was three times bigger then too, but the ass let go of all that extra stuff quite gracefully. Not so these. They look like somebody tear into them roughly, causing them to deflate abruptly. Unkindly.
I put the conga line in reverse away from the mirror. Too late. I catch sight of the stubborn little paunch. No amount of crunches could get rid of this thing--this thing that bears evidence of having carried twins to full term. I carried them so long one doctor actually said it was abnormal! It was his exam than sent me into labor a day later. I don't know whether to think of him as evil or merciful. Anyway, I'm left with a slight paunch on an otherwise small silhouette.
When I finally take the less-energetic conga line to the refrigerator, the ice-cream doesn't look so good any more. I imagine all that extra sugar can't be good for my paunch. So I sigh heavily and put my clothes back on.
Might as well tackle the laundry instead. After all, when they get back from romping around, that'll be more to the pile and it's already bordering on out-of-control. I wasn't planning on doing laundry until Sunday, but since I'm depressed now...what de hell.
By the time I'm done I feel a little better, and I figure I'd read. That's always pleasurable. I pick up Dabydeen's The Intended (his first novel. I'm still waiting for the donkey-cart mail system to bring my copy of his latest novel, by the way). I fluff up the pillows, and settle in. Then I happen to flip to the blurb and read this: "The narrator of The Intended is twelve when he leaves his village in rural Guyana to come to England." Oh no! Not another potential child-narrator! I can't right now; I'm still recovering from Buxton Spice for chrissakes.
Next on my night stand is Ruel's "Eve and Moonlight," but I ain't in the mood to read he either. The other day he sounded a little pissy when he responded to my initial comment on the poem. I, in a quick positive response to the poem on his blog, identified with the major emotions I saw there, and complimented the prose I saw in the poem. He responded, "It's poetry in this case." Pissy, right? Look Ruel, I happen to like the poem and I intend on paying it more just attention--its imagistic, lyrical verses, its themes, its style, etcetera--later. Okay? But on this day, as I try to be free of...whatever, I can't read "Eve and Moonlight" either.
I make myself a little quick dinner and listen to Bonnie Raitt for a while. Enjoyable. After dinner, the itch starts. I start looking longingly towards upstairs and the computer. I had promised myself to stay off the computer today because of my back pain, but as I head upstairs, compelled by the urge to see what's going on in the blog world, I reason: "I'm not a doctor anyway; how can I be certain I hurt my back from sitting in front of the computer? Utter nonsense!"
So there I am scrolling down the green screen, but no matter how quickly I scroll, a new piece pops up. He's a quick-fingered menace in the tail of Guyana Times today. hahaha! They're trying to correct the mistakes he points out, but seem to only be making more. Oh lord! It too funny! Switch over to Ruel. He's reminding readers why he decided to blog in the first place. Click over to Bakannal. He's got new comments on his "football" piece. His most recent post is still the same old George Carlin tribute with me complaining about the new look though. Jeeze. Is when he gon post over that? I only get that far. My back starts to claw at me, so I shut off the computer and head downstairs.
It's dark outside, and I'm feeling lonely. I call them. "How are my kids?" Plenty noise in the background. He repeats my question loudly for all to hear: "SHE WANTS TO KNOW HOW THE KIDS ARE DOING." Portuguese Sandy who can mix a mean cocktail comes close to the phone: "IS IT OKAY TO GIVE CJ [one of my twins] A SHOT OF VODKA?" Loud laughter. Husband skinning he teeth in my ears. "Hey, talk to CJ. He misses his mommy."
Oh no. CJ doesn't like to talk, and when he does it's usually with his finger in his mouth. This gon be painful.
CJ comes on chatty and clear as a shot of vodka: "Hi mommy! Fun! Fireworks!"
I should've gone to that barbecue.
I've discovered this: Independence is the freedom to spend the day doing things that prevent you from thinking about what it is you really want to do with your freedom.
No wait...scratch I should've gone to the barbecue. I should've covered the mirror and danced naked as I ate ice-cream.
Oh well, maybe next year.
