one hundred twenty-two

Baby is going crazy, doing kick-spins around the room.

My mind is swimming in a migraine from no caffeine and too much reading of words on a screen. I made a pot of coffee. I am drinking it slowly.

My window is wide open, the blinds pulled up, my fan whirling. Winter is drifting out the window, leaving the carpet a bit sticky with humidity and the air crisp.

The old smell of our house is back– the one that reminds me of those first few weeks; when our voices echoed in the house; when we had no couch, no television, no microwave; when we, Rachel and I, split a bottle of V-8 in less than two days. When Joe was here and we had no idea what the next two years would do to us. Before France. Before he knew he wanted to be with me. Before I knew what it is to be homesick.

I am searching for a recipe for sweet tea. And sun tea. I'm contemplating freezing coffee in an ice cube tray, to make coffee ice cubes to plunk into iced coffee. My coffee is hot, leaving a bit of sweat-steam on my lip when I sip.

Joe has officially been selected as a lecteur for the Nancy-Metz region. We both have jobs. In the same part of the country. I got an e-mail from "Elvis" in France. He mailed a check with our refund. I'm hopeful that it will arrive, and more so that we'll be able to cash it.

Our wedding bands arrived. The saleswoman that spoke so kindly to us about her faith in us, that gave us a special discount for being young Christians in love, that promised to pray for us, that reminded us how easy it is to be happy when you let yourself, the saleswoman called Joe and told us to pick up the rings at our convenience. I remembered crying when I picked up my engagement ring alone, after Joe had returned to St. Louis. This time: no tears, unless their tears of pure excitement for how things are shaping up.

All and all, even though my eyes hurt and I can't look at the screen, even though there aren't enough hours, even though it would be easier for me to panic and cry... It is starting out as a wonderful, wonderful day.

Epilogue

Aforementioned Baby rabbit is now attempting to chew on the cord for the aforementioned whirling fan. This shall not ruin the aforementioned wonderful, wonderful day.

one hundred forty-three

I realized today that this means I have less than 200 days left with Baby, my rabbit. Now, I realize that her breed can live to seven years, and I am not at all discrediting my family's ability to keep the little darling alive.

Since I began seriously considering going to France for the next year, and since I read an article that said she would scream on the plane because her ears would hurt so  badly, I've known that this day was inevitable. That does not make it easier.

Baby has traveled and traveled across the Midwest. She sits in her huffy, fluffball position in the backseat as we drive to Evansville, then St. Louis, then Ohio and back in circles. She does not sing along to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. She does throw hay at me when I take a turn too quickly.

She sits on my bed with me each day. In fact, she will no longer jump onto the bed until she sees that I am already up there. I choose to believe that she knows she'll be loved if I'm sitting there with her. Really, she just know the odds are good I'll be holding a book that she'll chew on.

When I make kissing noises, she runs to me feet. She follows my feet around the room, getting kicked and kicking me when our steps aren't quite coordinated.

She wakes me at six each day, chewing on the bars of her cage like any convict. She leaps from the confines and runs laps around the room in complete freedom, weaving between chair and desk legs, skidding along yoga mats.

It takes her days to settle into places we visit, and usually just as she's adjusted and ready to really hop around again, I move her back to Muncie. She's grown up in this home, and it worries me to think how she'll react when she realizes that we're not driving back to Muncie or that she'll never again climb over my fireproof box and jump into the back of my closet.

It worries me to think that she'll feel abandoned. That she'll have no one's hand to curl into they way she curls into mine and no one's bed to curl up on. I worry that, though she hates being picked up, I'm the only one in the world–truly–that can snag her and catch her when she leaps from my hands in midair. Mine is the only chest she's panted against after having her nails trimmed on the cold kitchen tiles.

It worries me more to think that she won't miss me. It hurts so much to think of her stretching out and going to sleep while anyone but me pets her. It hurts to think that she'll run on another stretch of floor without standing on her hind legs to find me waiting for her on a bed or couch our chair or beanbag.

In all the things that Joe and I refer to in our "Soon" mantra, this is one that I've only begun to realize.

manger

a list of things baby ate through (today):

my wallet
Main Street, by Sinclair Lewis
the shirt of my flannel pajamas, right below my boob
my green blanket
a Goodwill receipt
several balls of poop
my red slipper
a cardboard box


Addendum to goals for the year: Make people say, "You're there for me. You're a good listener," because they are mutually inclusive.