day 2: scattergories

The days this season have been light, airy. The cold is crystalline, neither heavy nor dank. Life goes as life goes, not tripping forward not dragging behind. It is lived.

In casual chatter, life is often separated into “family-life” and “work-life” and, never named but always understood, “hobby-life.” Life is so much more than these, but I’ve never refused a game of categories.

Family life is grand. Our marriage has never been sweeter; not even those early honeymooned months compare. Bean is a treasure, one we do not and will never deserve, but we’ll delight in and foster him evermore. Boomer is our rock. And I am reminded: the grass is greenest where you water it.

Work life is nonexistent, except in the realm of possibility. No office job or traditional employment can ever ever tempt me to leave my son. I not only lack desire to leave him during the day, I have a great aversion to the idea. The one thing that drives me to imagine a career, to picture what is expected these days, is guilt: guilt for being financially noncontributing, guilt for my apparent selfishness in wanting to be my child’s primary caretaker, guilt for not being able to leave him when so many other’s can and do and even have to or want to, gilt that I am not being practical. Guilt is a base motivation, a dirty motivation, and I’d rather dispense with the feeling altogether; yet it lingers. So I seek a flexible job, and a convenient job; one that won’t require more costly training or similar investment. I fear such a job doesn’t exist, or at least is Holy Grail rare. I interview later this month at a company which knows my desires for telework yet does not offer it. Still they want the interview, still I accepted it. We’ll see what comes of it all.

As for hobbies: my lifting has suffered. This past week especially has been disastrous. I cannot touch my toes. I have about four unfinished knitting projects. I’ll be surprised if I even remember how to hold a bow. My music is amateur at best. I read, but they are throwaway novels. Do I remember the wave function of a particle in a box? Can I integrate over a cone? And my writing, well, you see what it is. Shambling. Rambling.

For all of this, I’m happy for the first time I can remember in a very, very long time. Yes, I am happy.

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