Swings, Slides, and Freewrites

Monday morning, eight am. Writing in the margins of what would be Serious Writing Day number one, but I slept too late, and if I start re-reading an entire story now (all re-reading of your own work should be done in one sitting when possible, given the length of the story, and not your ever-decreasing amount of time), Baby Girl will wake up, and that'll be it, until tonight, assuming I'd actually stay up and not stumble off to bed around ten o'clock, which I'm sure I will. So tomorrow. Tomorrow. There's always tomorrow. The sun will come out and shine on my prose, and that stack of handwritten, and hopefully crinkled up pages of ink and scribbles I haven't seen since last September, and won't that be fun? It's supposed to look foreign. As if you're reading someone else's work, then you won't mind cutting large chunks of it to let 'em lie rotting on thy office floor.

I cleaned in here yesterday. Cleaned the whole house. More preparation. Disinfecting. Dusting. I'm a germaphobic-cleanaholic. Nice to meet you. How do you do?

That was Sunday. Baby Girl was being a brat, so I sent her off to the Others. I cleaned for hours. Friday and Saturday were both great, so if they can be considered the weekend, and let Sunday be completely ignored, then Man, I had a wonderful weekend!

My state refund arrived. Two hundred and fifty dollars: I think I'll take it and go out tomorrow and buy Baby Girl a swing set.

I'm not sure if two hundred and fifty dollars will afford such a luxury, or where to go to find one, if they'll deliver it, set it up for us. I just know that I want one. I want her to have it because she wants it, and I also feel like I should provide her something nice ever so often, like all the other kids have; the ones in daycare and preschool. Plus, they have each other to play with. She has no kids to play with. Just a rusty old tractor. A little red swing, but it's a baby swing, and as much as I like to pretend otherwise, my child is no baby. She's three feet tall and thirty pounds. Will soon be surpassing me in Math, I assume. She can count to twenty in English, and to five or ten in Spanish, and God bless Dora the Explorer, despite the way it gets on my God damn nerves.

Shut the puck up, you stupid map! I know you're the map, you don't have to tell me five million times!!

I'm the map (he's the map!) I'm the map (he's the map!) I'm the map!!

I'm Ash. And if it wasn't for the news and weather, and the occasional classic film, I'd blow up my TV and not think twice about it. Unless I caught the house on fire. Then I would think twice about it...I suppose I'd have to take it outside, and then I might accidentally destroy Baby Girl's new swing set (see how I brought that back around? Clever little editor I shall become...)

She was watching Charlie and Lola the other day (a show I do approve of, and enjoy) and Lola and Charlie were playing at the park, and Baby Girl was mesmerized.

Later on, we went out to play, and while in the backyard, she looks over at the neighbor's backyard and sees a bright yellow slide, and starts screaming, Ladder!

I had no idea what she's talking about. Though soon she wasn't talking at all, just grunting and pointing and whining then crying.

Mommy, mommy, slide!

Oh, the slide...yes, they have a slide, but we have Mr. Junky, and a baby swing, the one you just started using this Spring despite my buying it for you on your first birthday, and you were always too scared of it, and how do I know if I do buy you a swing set, you won't be scared of that too? It'll just sit rusting in the yard. Why don't you play with your car, or your bucket, or your shovel, or your wheelbarrow. And soon we'll play with the hose.

Slide, slide, slide.

It's all I can hear.

I figure I'll pay off debt with the big fat federal check, and that'll allow my minimum payments to be smaller each month, so I'll have more money left over to actually re-start my savings account (the one I had to empty around the time she was born, imagine that) and after I have a nice little cushion to fall back on should I hit rock bottom again, then, and only then, will we borrow that money and build us that house.

For now though, a swing set's all we want.

I'll be sure to take her picture once we get it...in the one above: tis my sister and I, back in 1986. On our brand new swing set. I was two years and eight months old. The same exact age as Baby Girl.