Sunday, April 3, 2011

Laundry as therapy- it's cheaper than wine but not half as fun.

We're still inundated with mucous here in the crayon box. As I type my chest tightens in reaction to hearing my youngest son hack up his little lungs. I keep waiting for the asthma attack, hoping to keep it at bay. It's been a long time since he had his last real full scaled attack. I have liked not visiting the hospital so much.

Football devours my days from Friday through Monday. Watching, playing, the laundry I do for 30 grown men. I have this perverse sense of achievement when I manage to budge the grass and dirt stains from 30 football jumpers...all white I might add. The husband has now realised what a mistake that was, and the has decided that the next set of team jumpers will be blue.  My bathtub is full of these once white jumpers, soaking.  They can wait.  A little longer at least.

Laundry is what I do when I have too many thoughts running through my head. Scrubbing at those jerseys is like attacking each thought one at a time, turning it around, staring it down.  They're (the thoughts) nothing personal and yet they are all too personal.  Like my brain waking me up because it couldn't shut out the Bolt saga. Leading to thoughts on identity, race, politics. Who am I really and how does that fit with different perspectives of culturally defined persona.  I am still turning thoughts over in my mind on that one.

Thoughts on Lent and how we've all manage to bend lent just a little this year, the two boys are fairing the best. Both made resolutions that would be hard for them.  Both are sticking to them very well.

Thoughts on the answers to feminist motherhood questions I am yet to finish...these ones are tougher. I don't know where to start.  But know that these thoughts are definitely linked with the identity thoughts.

and finally, thoughts about fish that fake orgasms. There is a type of brown trout, that when mating a female brown trout will fake orgasm, so that the male will think he's done his reproductive job, then she can swim away and mate with a more suitable male trout.

And I learnt a new term.  Penguin Guado. Which means penguin shit. This morning the husband informed me had the most satisfyingly huge guado....I need to stop telling him guado.

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