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For Part 1, click here.
A few months ago, I had poo all over my hands. Let's give that some context. I was in the parent's room at Macca's. It felt like there was poo all over the floors, the walls, the ceiling. There was poo smeared up Noah's leg, on his hands, on his feet. I needed back-up, badly.
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This morning, my son tried to eat my nose. He’s currently commando crawling around the house, banging the ground with assorted kitchen utensils that have been offered up for entertainment and finding remnants of toast or capsicum on the floor from one of yesterday’s meal times. He squawks and squeals with delight, while eating one of his Mama’s Havianas.
Thoughts are banging around in my head. A writer who never writes trying to squeeze out some words, during this brief window of opportunity while little man licks Sam’s footwear and she sleeps. I have struggled to write poetry lately. This morning I wonder if it’s time to let go of that for a while; if it’s time to tell different stories with different words, to pause and let the beautiful chaos of the last seven months bubble up and out into whatever form it needs to take. |
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