Wow. I’m sitting at my desk during one of the umpteen periods of letting the dogs run wild out back and it occurs to me that I think I used to be able to string words together in some sort of sensible order.
Now I’m lucky if I can get all the grammar correct in a basic sentence. Caught myself saying “who” instead of “whom” last night and was really embarrassed. At least it was only Gob who heard me, and either way he wouldn’t tell me “whom” or “who” he was barking at, so I suppose it doesn’t matter all THAT much.
The dogs keep chasing one another under my desk. That means that my speakers come unplugged, and when that happens I can’t write. I’m so jacked into the artificial typewriter sound that I’ve loaded onto my mac (which, yes, I just typed “mack”…if that doesn’t prove my case…) that if the clackety goes away I can no longer compose a sentence.
I wonder if it’s a form of self-hypnosis, that noise that I require to write. It’s either that or the fact that I started writing on my mom’s giant monster of an IBM Selectric when I was some young age and don’t really know any other way to do it. I am bemused by the authors who gush over the mysteries of writing longhand; I have been known to do it but to me it just feels more like filling in a form at the doctor’s. Typing is writing to me. It’s how I work best. It’s unfortunate because with the arthritis I should be quite happy with some Dragon Talk program (or whatever it’s called) but I cannot do it. I would be the world’s lousiest oral storyteller. I just need the typing. It’s my crutch. Anyway, it doesn’t make much difference now that my rambunctious lot have discovered how to kick my crutch out from under me.
I really wonder how Sarah did it. And I understand now more why she laughed when the God person told her she would have a baby. I’d laugh too…a laugh of unhinged frenetic madness. It’s exhausting enough having a puppy at 42. Having a baby at whatever age she was–I can’t imagine it. I don’t want to imagine it.
When I went to the doctor’s office a week and a half ago I ended up watching a young boy while his mother finished up her business with the office financial aid person. It occurred to me for the thousandth time that if I had been granted human children I would have made an okay mother at times. Perhaps once infancy was done. Oh, I’m fine with babies, but I do better when I can engage with a human.
Or with a dog, really. I’m getting on much better with Gus. Not that we ever didn’t get along, but now that he’s hit the 12th week mark and is more than a chewing and elimination machine we have more interaction that doesn’t consist solely of the words “ow” and “no”. Which is good and bodes well for the longterm prospects of our relationship. Although if he doesn’t stop chewing that squeaker in Gobie’s dragon I may go nuts. Excuse me. Time once more to parent.