I have no memory. At least I think I don’t, I can’t remember. There was a time when my memory was simply bad, when it merely took a physically scarring event to leave a crude image in my head. There was a time when my memory was… wait, did I just type that? It used to be that my brain at least worked like a science fair camera, but then we had a kid. The Child not only makes it hard to focus on the smallest of ideas, but also makes it nigh impossible to completely un-focus: to clear your head.
Lately the Spouse has been focusing solidly on bring home the bacon in various forms and I wanted to do something nice for her. If TV has taught me anything, and I assure you it has, it’s that hard-working women love a candlelit bath. You can just imagine it: a long day at work, a glass of lovingly decanted box wine, the smell of lilac candles (does The Spouse like lilac? Damn, I can’t remember…), those warm bubbles just melting away the stress… a two year old in the next room yelling, “I pooped! Mom I pooped!” You can see how hard it is to escape into fantasy with children around.
Recently we’ve started doing yoga in the mornings and the Child likes to do it with us. For maybe a minute. The other day I was laying on that little rubber blanket, stretching my hams in modified downward cobra, when The Child took my money clip and unloaded it on me. She was makin’ it rain. You can’t get swept too far away into your inner self with something like that going on. Within these circumstances you have to get as far into that imaginary world as you can before your kid drags you out with her shenanigans. Like puking in library books for fun.