infertility

I am feeling intellectually and creatively barren these days. Mama mushy brains here. Originality eludes me. For starters, I've only been promising my friend Jean for months now that I will write a poem for her to lay her fabulously poetic eyes upon and offer some critique. Because, though I never have thought myself much of a poet, I see the poetic everywhere everyday. We all do, right? Because life is so naturally poetic. The challenge is just to write it down, despite the inner critic who chides, "You can't." And then, god, there's the vocabulary. In fact, I'm shocked I was able to come up with chides. Had to mine for that one in the depths of my pre-mother lexicon. And, wow, lexicon. Whence did that golden nugget spring? Perhaps I am not as devoid of brains as I thought.

Actually, now that I've pondered this for the three-and-a-half minutes it took me to write the above paragraph, I think it's the reality TV that has shot me off into a state of mindlessnessness, landing me in my current wasteland of dull ideas. Kerplunk. I think this because last night as I was climbing the stairs to go to bed, all I could think about was how brainless Billy Ray Cyrus is and how much American Idol sucked last night. But I should really give myself some credit for swearing off The Bachelor this season. I think it's a real sign of personal growth for me. I mean, I am 30 now.

Perhaps, though, I should take a lesson from my toddler boy. For weeks now, he has been on verbal strike, refusing to speak and wow us with any of the words he was quite close to perfectly articulating weeks ago. Gone, like...and you see, I can't even make a proper metaphor for this. Shameful. I suppose I could've said gone with the wind, but, God as my witness, that's just pathetic, and, hullo, unoriginal, babe. Anyway, SD and I were reading and learned that sometimes this happens to toddlers when they are concentrating on learning other skills, and that once mastered, the former skills return to merge with the newly-acquired ones. So, maybe, I have reverted to my toddler-brain and just can't juggle all my genius balls at one time. Yes, that must be it. After all, packing a dishwasher, laundering snotty sofa cushions, sucking up a carpeted ocean of goldfish -- all require significant concentration and skill, my friends. It's no wonder I can't write a poem.

And then there's the goddamn woodpecker on our roof. If the above skills weren't enough to construct an artistic dam, the restraint required to keep myself from mudering a bird is.

Maybe I need another theme week here? You know, like Fashion Week, because I think we can all say it was then that I reached the pinnacle of my genius.

Even in a rut, however, I count my blessings, every one of them. I have been drawn to this story on one of my new favorite blogs, written by Kate, mama to Evan and most recently, little Ben and Liam who were born prematurely with numerous complications, and who are struggling, day by day, to breathe and to live. Makes me realize how lucky I am to have a healthy, bustling, breathing, living boy, who is, by far, my (and his dad's) most creative and pleasing accomplishment.

I could really drone on and on because our boy-child is napping, and I am enjoying this unedited confessional of my artistic guilt. However, motor-skill refinement from behind the kitchen sink beckons. And soon, so shall the child. And the damn bird.