Nesting Thoughts & Dreams

Drifting in and out of dreams, feeling hot, too hot, slip off my socks, those thickly knitted grizzly socks worn only on the coldest nights. Beads of sweat dampen my breasts and still not quite awake, I fight to shed some layers, or just think of shedding layers to lighten my nest while drifting back to sleep to the sound of the furnace running.

Winds must have shifted in the night as I keep this cabin on the chill side with the thermostat low. Neighbors caulk and plastic their windows but mine are not. I like fresh air so I don’t mind the drafts, perhaps because I smoke. I can dress for the weather.

I do my best thinking at night, drifting in and out of dreams, snuggled in a nest of crisp cotton sheets and soft layers, blankets of fleece and thin vintage wool, loose weave cottons, and fringed chenille. Without rhyme or reason, thoughts sift and sort and filter free to new logical conclusions.

Fresh hazelnut coffee, the last heel of bread toasted and spreaded with crunchy peanut butter, breakfast before dawn on a peaceful morn… and I think back to yesterday’s conversations.

Why do I let those people rain nails on my parade?

Is it my problem? Is is my fault? Must I absorb the misery? What has changed? Is anything different? Or is it the same ol’ same ol’ attempts to pop my balloons, to burst my joy? Should I apologize for not raising my child to hate a part of herself?

I got mad at the gossip because that is exactly what it was, even if the sister who swiped a photo off my daughter’s “friends only” facebook page and texted to my mother before we phoned with the news of his birth calls it “sharing the joy” because there was no joy in curt words, no hint of being happy about anything. No awes or ohhs about a newborn’s photo, just a “his nose is really wide” and “his father is a big man” when I ignore the coldness and talk away, tell her that he was born with big hands. (Which, by the way is not true… unless a slender 5’8″ is a “big” man so she must have got THAT from the sister’s gossip.) There was no asking for details or even how the mother is doing after a cesearian birth, just a cold shoulder attitude. Calling back yesterday, I got one word replies when I mentioned my new grandson, so fine… be that way.

I can’t fix broken people. That sister will always gleam information off the internet to fuel her gossip. She’s done it for years. I cannot make her stop or even call me, must less come talk to me in person.

As for my mother? She’s my mom. I will always love her and respect her, but I kind of feel sorry for her because she is the one missing out… she feels sorry for mixed children, believes they will have a hard life, be shunned by all, and she is the only one who is shunning them.

Want to see my new grandbaby? This photo was snapped at the hospital, when his mama tucked him into a star blankie, lol. Ah, he sleeps… so peaceful in his dreams.

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