February has been a slow month in books read. Maybe because of the interminable snow days, when I felt compelled to cook more, clean more (well, not really, that’s a lie), entertain the kids more, when I generally felt more stressed, so I couldn’t enjoy my reading. But January was better, so I’m going to put than in here too.
Female figurines made of fired clay, (Cucuteni 4200 BC – 3500 BC) Source: Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, New York University.
I have been spending a lot of (mostly idle) time in front of this view up here (yes, it’s my old kitchen desk that you’re remembering, I’m sure), to avoid paying any attention to the other, wider view of the inside:
I tend to feel very cold in the mornings, when I wake up long before the sun, because the baby is an early riser. Those are the hours when I want to wrap myself in a shawl to warm up while I drink my coffee and read my blogs, before I start making breakfast for the kids and an actual effort to wake up.
I read this Vagina Monologues playwright: ‘It never said a woman is someone with a vagina’ article in the Guardian the other day and it just added up to a lot of confusion I have been feeling lately about the dismissive attitude I see projected often towards individual experiences of feminism for the reason of not being inclusive enough. (This other Guardian articles,Class is permanent and Stop this stream of sob stories from self-pitying middle-class writers – we’ve suffered enough, have also contributed to the confusion.)
I’m sitting on the sofa reading a murder mystery located in a freezing Sweden spring (Asa Larsson’s Until Thy Wrath Be Past–really good, by the way). The stove, where the chicken stew (my mother’s recipe) is simmering, imparts a delicious warmth to the whole house. The light is turning crepuscular. I’m warm in my wool slippers and cardigan. The baby in his crib upstairs. Every once in a while I can hear him muttering something in his sleep.
During this winter vacation I read Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own,” a book that has been on my reading list since forever. Big round of applause for this minuscule achievement! Right. Thanks. Moving on.
Another new year. Don’t these things seem to turn up at an alarmingly fast rate lately? Only yesterday I was writing this previous new year post.
It’s probably a weekly if not daily discussion in my family: we need a bigger house, but no, what we have is perfect for us and we can adapt it to our changing needs, but still, one more room would solve all our problems, and yet why move when this is still working well for us most of the time and a small house (about 1150 sq ft, if you’re very curious) is what fits our values, though look at this house that’s for sale. It goes on and on, and it’s mostly just talk. We are happy where we are and moving is not something we’ll ever undertake too happily.
This hasn't been an easy week at my house. Sickness and sleepless kids. Not fun at all. But it is Friday and we do seem to see the light at the end of it all.
As we advance into the darkest days of the year, I start to feel the grip of anxiety and fear. It's often my children who make me feel real, heart-stopping fear. I am afraid for them. Before children, I was almost fearless. It was youth, maybe. Youth is crazy and doesn't think much, and you can blame a lot of unrealistic behaviors on it. Now, as a mother, I can barely watch five minutes of a horror movie and I get nightmares.
I had a nightmare recently. It was an epic one. It will go on the list of the ones never to be forgotten. My nightmares have always been very vivid and cinematic.