.one of several decaying logs, teeming with as much life as death
.a giant oak leaf that looked like a dinosaur footprint
.a bigass fort
.a temporary gravel pile and a couple of cute babies
.a lovely vulval bracket fungus on another of the aforementioned logs
.a strawberry bush aka hearts-a-bursting vine
#backyardnaturalist #fungi #decomp #forestfloor #treehouse #xpost via Instagram http://ift.tt/1JdQaxb
Everybody tells you, when you become a mother, that you won’t even get to go to the bathroom alone.
Nobody told me that I’d be so not-alone that I’d always have a quorum.
The listing realtor comes tonight to see the house and, I hope, give a much-needed motivation injection by telling us the pig’s lipstick looks quite sellable, actually.
Because right now — after at least 6 weeks of concerted purging, boxing, and clearing — it still feels like 80% of my preparation has been…buying a can of Febreeze.
People like Febreeze, right?
The more I want to be gone, the more impossible it seems.
Has anybody ever actually sold a house they were still living in? With two children? Under age 2? And a disability that makes tidying up a monumental effort?
My children don’t have a father. They have two moms, and an anonymous-for-now sperm donor.
(They also have amazing aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors. And I hope one day they’ll have some donor-siblings, but today I’m thinking specifically of their donor.)
The information we know about the donor is a strange mix of intimately detailed and hopelessly limited.
Some of things we know: some basic physiological characteristics and measurements, some resume fluff like education and career, some self-reported interests, a few generations of family health history. One small picture of him as a toddler. Some impressive sperm counts and morphology from a thawed sample.
What we don’t know could fill many a book. We don’t know if he has dimples, or if he needed braces as a teenager, or how much he likes to sing in the shower or dance in the kitchen. We don’t know if he was ever afraid of thunderstorms, or when he got his first passport. We don’t know if he ever thinks of the children that he helped create.
I don’t know how much it matters. The boys are so much their own people — arrived on the scene as completely their own little people — that maybe it doesn’t matter one whit about the meatbags and middlemen that mixed some body fluids to get them started.
I can surmise the donor is pretty smart. I mean, he figured out how to get paid to masturbate, and if that’s not a sliver of the Manly American Dream come true, I don’t know what is.
But half-kidding aside, I can also surmise that the donor is major-league generous. His contribution — however anonymous, or pleasant, or lucrative, or not — made us mothers, the kind of gift that nobody can put a bow on. Not even one of those Lexus-sized Christmas bows.
I can thank KK for making the leap with me, for all the once-in-a-lifetime-ness and the relentless daily grinding of it all. For being brave enough to let her heart burst open, so there’d be room to hold us all.
I can thank our friends and family for the support and patience and love they show us every day, that they show the boys every day.
Sometimes I get a little sad that I can’t thank the donor for his role in the gift, too, for helping me finally find my life’s work.