Bare butt poetry
So … I’m still living in dark days. I’ve taken a lot of personal time off the last three weeks, spending most of my time in my feeted jammies, vegetating in my comfy chair. The doctor is trying a new medication. … or tried it. It didn’t exactly work out. It gave me nose bleeds. I had to stop taking it. I have a quilt soaking trying to get the blood stains out of it. I gave up on the sheet and bought a new set.
Did I mention that I like feeted jammies? They’re snuggly, come off easily when the mood strikes and well … they’re comfy. …. Especially when my body temperature drops.
There are hazards though.
For instance, a day or so ago daughter five was following me up the stairs chattering rapid fire about a book of child’s poems. (She is still in a poetry mood. See earlier post.) She’s asking question too quickly for me to frame an answer but wants then all answered yesterday. So … she tugs on my jamma bottom. And swish! They’re around my knees, then ankles.
“Annie!” I shout.
Unabashed, she giggles. “Sorry, Mom,” she manages.
Now this wouldn’t have been so bad, except most of the rest of this household were at the foot of the stairs.
Events happened more or less in this order:
Knobby knees snickers and mildly scolds Annie while repressing snickers.
I reach for my pants which seem unaccountably resistant to my grasp.
Liz, who thinks of herself as my personal body guard, scolds Annie.
Daughter four has her hand over her mouth.
Daughter one scolds Liz for scolding Annie so harshly.
I’ve managed to get my pants up to my knees where they seem to be stuck.
Daughter three wiggles around her sisters and helps me free my pajama bottoms. “You’re standing on them,” she says. “Here, lift your foot.”
Modesty regained, I frown. “You!” I point to knobby knees, “You’re going to buy me Chinese take out. Take some of these rude children with you.”
“I could help you up stairs,” he suggests.
“No. Go. Buy food. Take children.”
Among shouts of “I want to go!” I hear Annie say, “Mom, about the poems …”
The rude people who live in my house more or less dissipate. Annie resumes her chatter as if nothing happened, following me into my bedroom and plopping on the bed.”
“See, here,” she says, “I don’t understand why ….”