Second week back at work. Working at the farm, arriving in the sweet dewy spring morning after dropping the baby off at the Parent’s Day Out. Even though she screamed when I left, I was bounding, fairly bounding back to the car so I could finish my coffee in a quiet place in my own head, driving 20 miles to the farm, NPR news, dry granola out of a box, stillness, I can think. What this has to do with postpartum, I don’t know, but I can think, now—I feel the hibernating brain awakening after not thinking real, what you would call “thoughts” for months and months. Significant amount of time spent in car thinking about how clear my head feels, little spent thinking about anything productive.

Arriving, my black canvas shoes immediately wet, sweeping through lush rye and Austrian pea cover crops on my way across the field, pulling up sections of electric fencing and sticking them back into the ground 50 yards away. I feel ungainly, a little unsure of myself, but what can I say. I’ve been waiting to come back for a year. I don’t really give too many shits about my lack of core strength, lack of hat and resulting sunburn, and my work shoes being $14 Target canvas slip ons instead of real farm shoes. I give so few shits you can’t even count them. I walk with buoyancy, take unusual pleasure in each various awkward difficult task. Even thinning the carrot seedlings, which is—to date—my least favorite farm job. But what is “least favorite” in March? Is any farm task difficult, in March? No, not one.

In other news, we close on our new house April 4th, and I’m deep in the jungles of paint. The whole house and all the baseboards have to be painted. Sage green or pale grass green? Dark teal or medium teal? There’s this trend to have white walls. I can’t. But what color should the kitchen be, and this is a real question? I gave Marshall the choice between a green-leaning teal and a very pale lilac for our bedroom walls, and he went with the lesser of two evils (teal). And the office/third bedroom is gonna be yellow. But that’s two rooms down, four to go. It’s a glorious problem to have, and I relish it.

Another glorious problem: planning the garden. If this blog has any regular readers, then they will read more about the garden. Likely in a lengthy sequence of posts dedicated to it and it only, and glowing with satisfaction. See how smug this paragraph is—ugh!

Mary still has red hair. In the sun, she burns like a little torch. She’s been trying to jump, yesterday and today. Has she been watching kids jump, somewhere? Where did she see that and think, “I bet I could do that”? Also she inexplicably knows the word “jump” and that that’s the word for what she’s trying to do!

I’m making a quilt. I’m going to get Dominique chicks in July.

My gynecological oncologist, white-haired old man who took me under his wing with my whole ovarian episode in 2008, just retired and referred his patients to this young guy whom I saw for the first time last week. Just disurbingly young, and—even more disturbing—really good looking. I was trying to describe how lame it was to have to wait in a hospital gown that opens in the back with no pants on for the Dr to come in, and then when he comes in you basically have to accept that God gives us humans no control over the least detail of our lives, and I realize my veiled language is making everything sound weirder than it was. It was just a pap smear and a pelvic exam. But does it have to be a stranger, who is a man, who is really young, and good looking? But anyway, I was trying to describe to Marshall how lame the whole experience was, in every way, and I realized that there was no male analogue. I was like, “Maybe imagine having a pretty young female Dr give you a colonoscopy?” But no. It’s still not the same.

I’m trying to write, even though I haven’t written in such a long time that when I DO write, stuff like this blog post comes out. But however jumbled and etc., it felt good to write. Getting back into it. New chapter.