Could this be lucky thirteen?
I’m kind of doubting it, as the day is two hours past half done now.
I took the morning off from work. I knew I was gonna do it last night, but it confirmed my decision when Heather told me she basically didn’t sleep at all. I know my turn at sleep deprivation is coming soon (though not soon enough it seems) and so I truly feel for her. Of all the challenges of early parenthood, that was always the toughest: that gritty hazy desperation, wondering if you’ll ever feel truly rested or awake again.
So having this blissfully free morning, I took my six-years bride to breakfast at a new restaurant in Ballard called the Hi-Life, owned and operated by the same team that’s given Seattle the 5 Spot and the Coastal Kitchen, both long time favorites of mine, especially for breakfast and brunch. The new place, while offering no new thrills, didn’t disappoint.
After breakfast we went for a walk around Green Lake: three miles at very casual pace. It was luxurious to be able to spend so much time alone with Heather.
I gotta tell ya: I’m getting kinda of sick of this. Not just the waiting for my baby to come out, but writing these daylogs, day in and day out. Today at least it seems like little more than an exercise in stubbornness.
Yes, it’s true that sticking to my stupid word has forced me to write about things I ordinarily wouldn’t, but it’s also distracted me from actually doing what I like to do most, and what I flatter myself to think I’m best at: wrighting plays.
Had an over-beers meeting with my producing partner to talk about efforts to produce Slotin here in Seattle, as well as a series of original short horror plays by different local playwrights. The meeting was necessary, and ultimately productive, but we were both at the end of wearying days, and grumpy, and had a hard time seeing each other’s point of views on things. These quasi-artistic/administrative relationships are like celibate romances: hard to maintain the passion over the long haul. We need to garner some actual success out there in theatre world to finally consummate things and cement the liaison.
Impatience is a bad luck force-multiplier. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my near twenty years as a playwright, it’s this. You get impatient: you get dull, reckless, sloppy. You start striking matches just to see things burn, when it’s light you want not fire and smoke. Then you find yourself walking through the smoking charred ruins of a great idea, thinking: “Why didn’t I just wait till the dawn?”
Waiting for a baby is like that . . . and isn’t: since there’s nothing you can do to force it . . . until there is.
It would be great if the baby could come this weekend. Heather’s mom could come over from Spokane and watch Declan, thus taking the child care worries out of the equation, at least for the short term. But babies have nothing to do with convenience. Babies shatter convenience like so much collected antique glass.
And so we wait . . .