I have roughly 3 things to write about today. In no particular order.
One. The baby and I are sitting in the sunny grass. Only our front yard has sunny grass. The backyard is dirt and fallen twigs from trees and tennis balls for the dog. Technically, only the baby is sitting. I’m reclined, half sitting, half lying, propped up on one elbow, turned to my left.
Either way, sitting with the baby at 2:10 pm on a Wednesday afternoon is a luxury—or so I’m realizing. The typical 9-5 means no father-daughter front yard time. Not midday. Not midweek. Why have we not evolved past the ball and chain that is the 40 hour work week? We birth our sons and daughters only to send them to daycare, to pre K, to school, to college—seems odd, how quickly we separate the family. I hear the rebuttal loud and clear but unconvincing: someone has to go to work to support the family. My point isn’t about work it’s about amounts and distribution. Like the 1 person works, 1 person stays at home model blows for both people really. A more equitable and enjoyable split would be PT work for both parents, which would allow a tag-team approach: each person could get out of the house each day, get the feeling of autonomy and existence independent of being a parent, etc.
I’ve never thought about this before, because I haven’t had reason to. But now that I have a vested interest—a 9mo daughter who I very much enjoy— it makes me see how dehumanizing the current system of adult labor is.
Two. On a lighter, bubbling and effervescent note, the fermented rice milk is delicious. We’re packing books for the move to Minnesota and I re-discovered “The Art of Fermentation” by Sandor Katz, which has hundreds of probiotic recipes from around the globe. The rice milk is gold. Here’s how to make it happen: cook brown rice, then cool, then add to vitamin with water, then blend, then add kefir grains, then wait one day, and mmmm.
Another notable discovery is the fried tortillas made entirely of fermented black-eyed-peas. Delish.
Three. And I mean this in the non-cheesiest way possible, but I’ve been thinking that in order for me to stay sane I have to believe in the almost religious like radiance of life—in the magically of this mundane fucking moment, and instead of fearing the future, like I normally do, I have to close my eyes, open my eyes, and have some faith that if I believe, the universe will meet me half way—I have to believe this and it has to rise up really high to the level of sounding bullshitty and almost fake, because I know if I don’t go that high it’s too low and I’m elbow sliding in mud, because that’s what the art feels like sometimes, even though we’re told it’s solid, it feels like a this planet is an existential sinkhole…unless you squeeze your eyes together and believe in miracles on a moment to moment basis.