Saturday was errand day. My forays in to the world have been less frequent and even less effective. I can only go so far before I need to pee or nap, and I can lift and haul fewer things anyway, so I have not brought home things like the 96 load jug of Tide and 50 pound sack of rabbit food. Geoff and I, with William, Alex and Max in tow, hit The Pancake House, Target, Costco and... seems like there was more... Anyway that was enough. Later I also made it, on my own, to Yardage Town for cotton batting, because I have the delusional notion of completing just one more quilt. Now we have lots of diapers, paper plates, grape juice, a bouncy chair, bigger socks for Max, jeans for William, turtlenecks for Alex, cat food, plenty of laundry detergent and even new night lights that change colors. What about a crib? Yea, we gotta work on that one.
By six o'clock last night I would have believed anyone who said it was really 11 o'clock. My energy doesn't decline or wane, it simply shuts off. And then I am wide awake at hours like this. This is not an ideal house for padding about the house in the wee hours. For one thing, downstairs is cold and remote, and upstairs every room is occupied by sleeping people, so it would be unkind to turn on a light or bump about too much.
Many of the shortcomings and little idiosyncrasies of the Tree House are becoming less charming, quaint and tolerable. The original plan was to live here for a year. Time enough to recover from rushing out of El Rancho, with a fire on our tails, and to figure out our next move. The next move is not revealing itself in a specific enough way. Have I ever shared the fact that we have three children with beds in the dining room, which is open to the kitchen and a sort of living room, which is too small for a sofa, but large enough for a computer and chairs? And all of this upstairs, along with our "master" bedroom, which has a pretty significant plumbing leak. A plumber is coming this week, but there's not much we can do about the rest. We aren't suffering, just sort of squirming uncomfortably.
I miss Diego very much. It's amazing how much one personality can be such a significant part of the day, and night. He slept by my side or at my feet, sometimes nestled against me like the best personal heater ever. He had a pathetic meow; it was more of a canary chirp than feline speak. We all miss the meow, and his lead footed stumbles down the stairs. Anyone could pick him up and carry him about, without upsetting him in the least. He rode in the car, happily. When he and Chango walked to the kitchen for their breakfast, Diego would leap over Chango, like a circus dog doing sideshow tricks. Chango misses Diego too. This is what I surmise anyway, because Chango rarely leaves the house anymore, and he seeks us out for more scratches under the chin and he demands attention that he used to forgo. But dear Chango is much less domesticated than Diego, so Max can't pick him up and carry him down his bed slide, or snuggle him under the covers. So, like Chango, we can often be found absentmindedly staring out the window, waiting to see our little friend with the raccoon's tail, hoping he will come home.
Max has shifted his name campaign; he thinks instead of naming Papaya "Max," we should name her "Diego." He also wants to fill the stocking that Alex made for Diego, with toys that his kitty can still enjoy in Heaven.
Pregnancy hormones, insomnia, and grief... this is such a Kleenex moment.
