Immoderate

It’s been a winter unbothered by moderation.  Seventy degree days followed by bitter cold and a healthy dump of snow, ice encasing budded branches who were so very tricked, so very premature in their optimism.  The bright sunny faces of my daffodils are muffled under a drift:  “We’re fine!  We’re totally okay with this!  We knew it was still winter!  It’s OKAY!”

The neighborhood kids flew past my greenhouse door, clinging to their disc sleds as they careened over jumps.  I hoped I wouldn’t be running anyone to Urgent Care, and I watered the radishes, lettuce, peppers, and tomatoes, the temperature gauge telling me I was enjoying seventy degrees of heat.  I stooped over the radishes.  Their love leaves (what I call their first heart-shaped seedling leaves) are making way for their true leaves, somewhat more jagged, almond-shaped ones.17352337_10155469516858352_7104481727881436609_nModeration escapes me also.  I am pregnant with our sixth child, and I think I could sleep for days.  I am hungry and I can’t stand the thought of food.  I want coffee, and no I do not.  This doesn’t perplex me; I’ve been through this many times, so I breathe and remember the fleetingness of everything.  I curl on my side, my whole body seeming to cradle my abdomen, and I subconsciously lay my hand over where the little one grows.

I am so tired, but it doesn’t need fixing.  A body making a body takes a good bit of energy, and the tiredness is a signal to rest.  In a few weeks I will likely feel normal again and ready for the garden work of spring and beekeeping.  The snow will melt away, and we’ll drag the lawn mower out of the shed as the grass wakes up and stretches heavenward.  My belly will pull at my shirts until I acquiesce and don the maternity tops.  End of the school year events will jostle for our time and attention, and the heat of summer will drop down in waves.  That is how things seem to go, always they come at me before I am adjusted to the idea of change.  “Oh, we’ve moved on?  We’re here in the next?  Oh!”

I am too tired to articulate any more thoughts, though they buzz around my head and crowd the door of my mind, struggling to burst through and become written.  “Later,” I console them, “You know I’m too sleepy to hear you.”

 

 

 

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