The room where I'm sitting, the nursery, is lit only by the Barney episode my son is watching and a ceramic Noah's Ark nightlight. The room appears blurry to me because I haven't yet inserted my contact lenses. The room smells sweetly of talcum powder and little boy. There's still a fine white dusting over the furniture from when my son went a little crazy with an open bottle of the baby powder a few weeks ago. (See picture above). I vacuum and dust, and yet it appears again a couple of days later. It looked like it snowed in his room the day he did it, rampant with little toddler-sized footprints marking his steps on the carpet like a back yard.
The sky outside is gloomy and still dark, not from the time of day but from the clouds, and I choose to keep the shades closed at least for a little while longer. My first cup of coffee is at my side--there's no better sound in the world in the morning than that gurgling ebb and flow of a percolator.
There's a miniature navy blue volume of Keats beside my chair, and the rest of the set of poets is scattered about the room on the floor. My son likes them because they're just the right size for his little hands. Hand-scrawled inside the back cover of the Christina Rossetti, like an outdated ex libris from that other life, reads: *Sustained: 12-15 Rds/min, *Semiautomatic: 45 to 65 rds/minute, * Automatic: 150-200 rds/min, *Cyclic: 700-800 rds/min.
I take another sip of my accidentally over-sweetened cup of coffee. Still not bad.
I check the Craigslist furniture ads compulsively, like an addict. I desire a writing desk in the worst way. To replace the mirrored vanity in my bedroom. With a lot of cubbies for stamps and papers and pens and pre-sharpened pencils. Although I remember fondly a Hemingway story about a writer who would only write while looking in the mirror. But that seems unnatural to me.
These are the things I've searched for on the internet lately: the instructions on how to construct a secret passageway in your own home, antique books, Victorian wrought iron bistro sets, toddler boat beds, and window seats.
As soon as my husband wakes up, it will be my cue to begin my Monday activities. I bought a day planner and gave myself purposeful jobs for each day. I do better when I'm given a little direction, especially when it's myself who's giving the orders, although I haven't yet finished any of the tasks that I've laid out for myself on any given day since I bought the planner. I'm afraid I don't take anyone else very seriously if they tell me what to do. I fear I'm still very much the petulant child.
Barney is over, and now it's Monsters, Inc. I think I will start breakfast to inspire my husband's waking. I want to get this day started.
****
I've dressed in Irish linen rather than sweats to clean (James Joyce would hopefully approve), though I've retained my fuzzy red Liz Claiborne houseslippers,donned my librarian glasses, and pulled my now waist-length hair into a tight ponytail. Swirling up dust would only irritate my contacts and muss my hair, I've learned. Windows and shades are now open to air out last week and invite this new one, along with the birds' chirps.
****
Critically low battery, my computer pops up with an annoying window reminder. Switch to power outlet, it says.
Farewell.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Setting the scene on Monday morning
Imparted by Southern Girl at 7:40 AM
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