For the love of...

This past weekend Greasemonkey and I decided to get away for a little date night.  We had a gift certificate to Rodizio Grille, so we ended up at Trolley Square.  After dinner we had a little time, so we decided to wander around Trolley for a minute.  It was then that we stumbled upon the most magical place I've ever been. I'm sure this isn't a new place, but it was new to me.  The moment we walked through the door of Weller Book Works, I knew I'd be back for more.  Let me tell you about this incredible place:

I walked through the front door into a room full of antique, rare, and vintage collections of books.  Through a small back door labeled "More Books This Way," a whole world opened up. The first thing I noticed was the smell.  Oh, that glorious, wonderful, musty, lovely odor of well loved books. I trailed my hands along the exposed brick wall to the staircase in the corner. I trod down the stairs into a veritable wonderland of mostly used books.

I sent Greasemonkey away on a made up errand so I could have a moment to myself.  It was at this point that my emotions, quite literally, overcame me.  I broke out in goosebumps and got teary-eyed.  You see, that's what books do to me: they reach right into my heart and tug on the strings that reside there. I wandered aimlessly for several minutes trying to compose myself. It wasn't happening. I trailed my fingers along the spines of the well-loved tomes and let the tears flow for a awhile.

Books speak to me in a way that nothing else can.  They are more than just words on a page.  They are more than just stories.  They are more than just pages in a binding.  There are entire worlds contained between those beautiful, worn covers.  There are lives, feelings, hopes, dreams, and so much more in those beautiful pages. It is an escape from the mundane, the every day, and the hardships of the real world. I am a die-hard book lover.  I have been having a love affair with the written word for as long as I can remember. It is a love that I hope to instill in T-Bone, as well.

Anyway, back to my aimless wandering:  I stumbled upon a true hidden treasure.  Many of you know that I am a life-long fan of Roald Dahl.  What a lot of people don't know is that before he wrote some of his better-known books, he wrote many short stories for magazine and newspaper publishing. Well, I found a copy of The Roald Dahl Omnibus. And it was only $10.  Seriously?  I snatched it off the shelf and hugged it to my chest while I went off in search of Greasemonkey. I knew that if I didn't get that book I'd kick myself all the way home.  Forget the fact that we were on the motorcycle and it was 600 pages long.  I would find a way to get it home.  After convincing him that I didn't just want it, I NEEDED it, we left that wonderful book haven the proud new owners of an omnibus. I zipped it into my jacket for safe keeping on the ride home and we ceased the nights adventures.

So, you see, this rare gem of a book store made me forget about life for awhile.  It melted my cares away and it melted my heart.  For my first true love will always be books.

A bit of a whine

I'm not feeling so hot today. Physically, there isn't anything wrong with me, but in my heart I'm hurting. You see, I was supposed to be having a baby next month. True story.  You can read the background here. I've since come to the realization that it wasn't time for us to have another one yet.  T-bone needs me right now, and he needs me all to himself.  I get that.  Emotionally, I'm not ready for another baby yet (you can read more on the "why" of that here).
Anyway, not the point, let me get back to that... The point is this:
In the past year I have had no fewer than 25 friends announce pregnancies. I wish that were a gross exaggeration, but it's not.  If anything, it's an underestimate. In the past 3 days, I've seen at least 5 new announcements, not to mention a phone call from a friend of Greasemonkey's saying that they'd actually just birthed a 3rd child that we didn't know they were expecting.
And all of it kind of hurts. I know, I don't have anything to complain about.  I have several friends that, for whatever reason, aren't able to have children without medical intervention, or can't have children at all.  I am so blessed to know that my body has the ability to get pregnant and carry a baby to full term. I am so blessed to have my sweet T-bone. And I'm so happy for all of my friends expecting children. This isn't to take away from their joy, not in the least. I know that many of them have waited a long time for the children they are expecting. I know that they will be wonderful parents and that they will love their babies with everything they have.
I know it's not our time yet, but it still hurts.

The Women we Become After Children

"We change shape, we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair. We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten [snacks], a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, perspective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and-look!-they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch the knees of dungarees. We get used to living wtih a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live. We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually, we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and 'heavens above'. We give up [parties], we colour our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming pools, libraries, cafes for other of our kind. We know each other by our [strollers], our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy [cookie] cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in [public], sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight-seamed dressed, their tiny handbags, their smooth, washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill."

The Hand that First Held Mine

by Marrie O'Farrell

Ask any mom you know and she will tell you that this is the truth... and that she wouldn't change it for the world.