My time to write is when the baby naps. It's an uneasy feeling when your ability to work depends on someone elses ability to sleep peacefully, to not need you so much for a bit. I guess that is the negotiation of motherhood.
Despite turning into a overgrown jungle, and being ignored for weeks at a go, like i.e. not even watered for sometimes five days, the garden grew itself. The tomato harvest has been this
every couple of days. We saw Kyle at the farmy markt the other morning and begged him to just come into our back yard and harvest at will this week. In retrospect, my enthusiasm got the best of me. I am not sure what I thought could be done with with like 15 lbs of heirloom tomatoes a week. I am sure if I got a subscription to Grit, The magazine of Rural Know-How I would know better. Grit is like hipster homesteader porn, right up there with the Rare Seeds catalog--lamenting city life, perusing articles like "How To Dig Your Own Culvert" or "Building a Doghouse" or the recent coverstory on how to manage your dirt roads when they become mudroads. I will lament city life a little less now that prayers have been answered and Mayor Daley is on the way out. Fingers crossed for Rahm. He's the right kind of prick to run this town, though, as Nelson Algren wrote, it's been "a rigged ballgame" since it's fur-trading days, at least maybe do something about the 50-shootings in a weekend/trains catching on fire all the time/corrupt everything/encroaching shithole state of the city.