on writing, bird-killings, and other fancy things

My sister-in-law, who will probably want to kill me for linking this picture of her at Eli's first birthday party, recently told me she wants a daily blog from me. You know, come to think of it, I want a daily blog from me, too. I wish I could be as prolific, as on-top-of things as some of these champion bloggers out there who post (substance) almost every stinkin' day. How do they do it? I'm simultaneously envious and admiring. Some of them just have the gifts of gab and smarts and fortitude and discipline (god, how I need more discipline) and whatever else it takes to post every goddang day. I remember when I was working as a public relations writer at a university and having to do press releases how hard it was for me to just churn something out in 10 minutes or so. I mean, how hard should it really be to announce that there is going to be a demonstration thingy of a fire rescue mission at the School of Fire...oh, I forget what it was called, but they had demonstrations all the flippin' time? And Lubna, their in-house PR person would always call me up, and I knew, by the smell and fluttering tone of the ring, who it was and what she would say:

Gen-ee-fur...? Loob-na, with the Fire Prevention...blah, blah, blah. Vee are hav-eeng dee-mon-stration tomorrow. Can you write press release and send photogree-fur?

God love Lubna. She was really such a nice lady who was just super dedicated to promoting all the goings-on of her fire center. They were damn lucky to have her.

But, I digress. Although I loved the diversity of topics I was able to cover and that I did get to write the occasional feature story, I always felt under the proverbial gun, no doubt due, in part, to my unceasing perfectionsitic nature to have the perfect word used in the perfect way, in the perfectly wrought sentence. I've since let a little bit of my neurosis go, but I still don't know if I would be comfortable in that minute-to-minute journalist-type job. I am too much a thinker by nature for that. Sometimes, to a fault.

But blogging without deadlines is great, because I do or I don't, and even though I put pressure on myself to do it, because it's so refreshing and such a satisfying creative outlet and a great record of our family history in all it's gloriously mundane glory, I know I don't have anyone waving a calendar of do-this-by-such-and-such-a-date over my incredibly shrinking brain.

And, of course, there is the toddler, whom I infinitely adore and who gives me more inspiration than anything to write (and attempt to do it well). But, you know, he has needs, as he should. And I want to meet those needs with energy and joy and willingness. And so the great circus act begins of trying to be the best mom I can be and also carve out pockets of time to reflect on all the minutia of our life that mostly we only care about but that I feel the need to share with anyone who will read and listen. I've found nap times work best because before bed I'm usually dog tired and indulging my reality TV obsession, which kills off brain matter by the nanosecond. But nap times are usually when I should be cleaning all the messes that crop up as if by cruel magic and tending to other more pressing things like scheduling dental appointments and scrubbing the crayola off the window sill, but the flesh is weak, and sometimes (like now), I cave and indulge in a blog. It could be worse -- I could be indulging in ice cream, which would seriously compromise my upper-arm-circumference reduction program.

Speaking of minutia, here's a little bit, which, I'll admit, is kind of gross, but, what can I say but that it's our life. While wrestling the small one in our bed last night after his bath and before settling him down for sleep, here's what my husband says to me:

I think I need help.

Me: Really? With what?

SD: I can't stop biting my fingernails.

Me: I'm really sorry to hear that.

SD: I know. Me too. I just can't stop. And now they are deformed and they bleed (which is really romantic, by the way).

Me: Well, if it makes you feel any better, it's probably similar to why I have a sick obsession with guillotining all the weekly breakouts on my face (I told you this was gross, and, no, I did not use the word 'guillotine' in that moment...it's called embellishment, people).

Enter toddler, preparing for a swan dive in the direction of the wall behind our bed -- with, I might add, a wreckless abandon and an unbridled enthusiasm no child should have at 8 pm when it is time for him to go to bed and time for his parents to have a drink.

Incidentally, I have other nervous habits, like running my fingers through my hair. It's a wonder I don't have thinner hair. Once, when I was a teenager in church with my family, an old aunt of mine who was at the same mass, came up to me afterwards and scolded me for twirling my hair because she said it distracted her terribly and she could not concentrate on her mass. Wow, didn't see that one coming. And I'm sure I'll spend an extra five light years in purgatory for it. But that's what old aunts are for, I suppose. And she is deceased now, and honestly, I miss her saucy, slightly acerbic retorts.

It should also be known that I peel my fingernails and fidget.

:::

So, I'm trying like mad to work on my 13 Ways of Killing a Woodpecker (modeled after Wallace Stevens' 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird), as per Jean's suggestion, but I just can't seem to wrap my pea-sized brain around that poem yet, which has caused me to resort to looking at literary criticism, which I probably haven't done since trying to read some dreadfully boring work like Rob Roy in my senior year of an undergrad British lit class. But now I'm a liar because I so had to do it when I taught the dreadfully indecipherable Scarlet Letter to uninspired high school sophmores. It was in the curriculum so I had to. I know what you're thinking -- I have lead a scandalously interesting life up until now.

I could do, How Do I Kill Thee, Let Me Count the Ways and model it after Elizabeth Barret Browning's poem, which has a much easier structure, but that just seems so cruel considering what the content of the original poem is. I'll have to think about it.

In the meantime, here are some possible ways to murder a bird who hammers away incessantly on your rooftop, particularly when your toddler has decided to sleep in late and you are thanking God and trying to do the same:

• with a shotgun (the obvious and least creative, of course, and which would have to be borrowed, which would be a brow-raiser of a request);
• with a broom (again, sort of obvious, and probably not long enough to reach the roof, but I do have immediate access to one and know how to use it);
• with a cast-iron skillet attached to the end of the broom stick (I haven't exactly fleshed out the details of this yet, but it's more creative than the first two and might provide more of the length/height I need);
• with fireworks (which are probably illegal in my neighborhood because of all the trees, but again, kind of creative; however, this method might be slightly difficult to time, especially with the bird's capabilities of flight, but the 4th of July is coming up)

Okay, so this is all I have at the moment, and the toddler is stirring, so I'll have to to think on this some more later. In the meantime, I'd be happy to hear any other methods you might suggest. I guess that would sort of make you an accomplice if you did, in fact, suggest something that I decided to carry out, but I promise I won't be a snitch.