yesterday my niece visited. she wore her best tutu for me. she laid: sideways on the couch, longways on the couch, upside down on the couch. she stood on the couch. she jumped, jumped on the couch and two pairs of grown up hands shot out, touching not her but her parameters, defining the boundary, shaping her fortunately not utilized fall zone. see, her mother and me, we have been initiated into the dark world of injury. we are aware of the coffee table, aware of glass-cut corners, aware of the karlstad’s proclivity for self-induced cantilevers despite my placing non-slip cabinet liners underneath the seat cushions. there’s ideal circumstances, i mean, recommended substructures, non-slip shelf liners that stay non-slip even inside the karlstad? then there are the realities of our rarely vacuumed homestead, and then there’s the incense ash.
i brought out my toy cat in an effort to impress and/or distract niece. she cradled the toy cat, stroking its head. "what's her name," niece asked. niece cares not for how one has gendered their own toys. niece travels across town with a glittered pink tutu over her romper and a glitter filled rainbow wand. anything gendered anywhere is a girl. end of story. argue? don't even try. i told her the cat's name is 'patchouli' and niece did not appreciate this. "that's a boy's name," she informed me. "her name should be magenta or something."
later ben got home from work and we worked on christmas presents and continued along our current trajectory of cancer-related processing: yesterday, it was "ben and judy take turns spontaneously crying late into the night." we'd stop soldering or gluing and end up in the little hallway off the bathroom salt washing the other's t-shirt. then we'd get back to soldering and gluing. we couldn't exactly stop, you see, because we actually do our holiday celebration and gift exchange on christmas eve. one salty batch of presents, to be sure.