We were sitting in a Saint John restaurant waiting for our PadThai and Pho to arrive, and Lee and I were already a tad on edge, when the kids–overtired and strung out– started barking “like angry puppy dogs” (they said), and then Treva smacked Horus, and Horus turned to her and screamed (for the additional benefit of the entire restaurant), You Cheese-Flaming Bastard !!!, You Puma!!!! You Sifaka!!!! (Did you know that Sifakas live in Madagascar? What better insult than to call one’s sister the name of a primate that also incorporates the f-word?! brilliant) to which Treva swiftly responded with an equally loud, Be Quiet you Jack O Lantern!, before Fosbury flopping over the back of the booth and diving under the next table (mercifully empty, this time), at which point Lee mentioned that he was “skeptical” about the viability of the brilliant idea I had just proposed, which, coming from the least practical person I have ever encountered (so obviously we got married), would have resulted in my severe annoyance at the best of times, but which at this moment totally sent me over the edge, and I scooped Felix into my arms, grabbed his snowsuit and marched out, muttering, I just can’t take any more of this right now.
Felix and I went and sat at the coffee shop next door and he nursed peacefully while I read a book on my phone about gender, mothering and divorce, feeling guilty the entire time about technology’s bleed into every crevice, and regretting my abandonment of the promise of Pho which I had ordered, as I do, with chicken, extra vegetables and no noodles, please.
This post was supposed to be about negotiating, or not-negotiating, with fathers when it comes to home birth. But I have received so much shit lately from people I love, about my writings on birth and intervention and ultrasound, that all I can offer you right now is this sad little scene of undomestic bliss. Poor little me, haha.
In other news, our preparations are now beginning for our next long wood firing, and Lee and the kids have been heading off down the road where we have been given permission to cut up the remains of what was once a prolific and extensive orchard. The children climb like monkeys while Lee wields the chainsaw, so what on earth could be better than that. Everything is melting, including a winter’s worth of dog crap in the back yard.