Poop is Funny

Some new writing, from my new piece about mom-hood:

Babies pee on you. Did you know that? Sometimes they even poop on you. Like, when you've been breast-feeding wearing nothing but a sarong and it's the first day your husband has gone back to work and you're totally alone with this baby and the postman knocks on the open screen door (which never, ever happens any other time) and you get up to try and answer it and your sarong falls off and you realize somehow you have poop on you. And you're naked, with a baby, and a postman knocking on an open door.

That's an experience from a while ago, for me. Today's experiences are more about child-created lightning (enjoying flicking the lights on & off & on & off & on & off & on & off until the dad or the mom come rushing in yelling about wasting energy) and long stories featuring the many residents of the tiny Island of Sodor. And yes, some experiences are still about poop. Poop is funny. No way around it. My son's favorite joke:

"I eat poop." Followed by:

"I eat wipes." And finishing up with:

"I eat napkins."

Funny comes in threes, he already has that down.

And you non-parents (and maybe some of you parents) would not think "I eat poop" a very funny joke, but you have not seen the shining, gleeful, devilish eyes of my son when he says it, and you have not heard the belly laughs that follow.

When you're four, poop is funny.




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I'm home, I'm home, I'm home, I'm home!

I feel like there is an 8 or 9 year old girl, skipping inside me, singing.



"I'm home, I'm home, I'm home, I'm home!"



I knew it would be good to be back, good for my family to come home to Seattle. Good to leave San Diego, which just wasn't right for us.



But I honestly had no idea I'd be so HAPPY to be back here. Back in Seattle, cold & wet & all.



Every moment, every omen has been rich with blessing. Our families and friends opened arms and homes and hearts to us. We landed at our mid-wife's home, and slept under skylights that looked up at the stars. And then, almost immediately, we found our home.



A beautiful little house, on south Beacon Hill, with a great big yard just waiting for our gardens. I sit, right now, in my office, my own tiny office at the front of the house, with two huge windows and one little port-hole that all look out on trees and sky - I feel like I'm in a little boat. Especially today, a rainy old day.

Other signs of homecoming: my husband going right back to work. Me getting calls for part-time, contract work, for vocal coaching and grant-writing and teaching. Finn playing with friends and family.

And now, after a few weeks here, our house becomes our home, with furniture coming in, gifts from friends and Goodwill treasures, boxes getting unpacked for the first time in nearly two years - boxes we never even managed to open in California.

And even deeper, richer signs of homecoming on another level - I have been writing.

I have been writing.

I have been writing, for myself, for reading aloud, for others to read, just beginning to stretch muscles that have been dormant and quiet for so long. I have a novel starting. I have a new performance piece. Wanna hear part of it? It's about mom-ing. I actually just posted it on Facebook, and realized it belongs in a piece. I'm gonna post it here, right after this one.

Two posts in one day. Makes up for three weeks away.







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Home...

We are home.

In our midwife's beautiful old wood house, in Columbia City, Seattle, Washington.

It's cold and clear out, and so so quiet.

We had dinner at Tutta Bella, we walked there and back.

Earlier, Finn said "My friends are coming here today." And I tried to tell him it might be a few days before he got to see his friends. Then, about 30 minutes later, we looked out our window and Kenny said, "There's Tiffy." And there she was, Finn's Tiffy who watched him and loved him from 6 months old until we moved south 16 months ago. Walking by with 3 little ones. We went out to say hi; Finn hid behind me, then retreated to the safety of the front porch where he jumped up and down as high as he could, grinning.

We have an invitation to her potluck Thursday night, and an invitation to my sister-in-law's birthday dinner, too.

And an appointment to look at a house tomorrow. Maybe our new home. We'll see.

For now, this is a fine first home, this old wooden house where Kenny landed when he first arrived in Seattle nearly 20 years ago, where Finn spent his first 6 months playing with Isabelle when I worked, where Finn and I retreated during his first week of life when my blood pressure was high and they wanted me in the hospital, but we came here instead.

This is a birthing house.

It is the birth of our new life in Seattle. Our home.

Thanks be to God and Goddess, Higher Powers, Great Spirits, and the Mothers of us All. Thank You for Home.





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