#36 Weekend Inventory

Paying attention.

Jan 26, 2026

Hitting snooze for one hour, twenty minutes until I hear the baby coo. Beeswax candle lit on the stove. Shelley Duvall sings “He Needs Me.” Frost on the burn pile in the backyard. The studio heater is set on a timer so it’s balmy by the time I walk in. A stick of incense, the same burnt at the silent meditation retreat two years ago. Pump: 30 minutes, 10 oz. Coffee top off and steam rising from the dishwasher as it runs. Tiny baby gnome in suspenders, back asleep after less than two hours awake.

Open the novel draft. Then: What is the best cod liver oil for babies? Do babies need a probiotic? How do I help my baby learn to sit up? How can my teenager access the money in his Venmo account? Why does my baby keep gasping? Why is my baby so freaking cute?

Cold passenger seat as the 16-year old drives to driver’s ed. His music (“Archie, Marry Me”) cuts out as he walks away and on the radio, how “I Lied to You” was conceived and written for Sinners in just a few hours. Making anything in just a few hours feels so impossible, the black bag of outgrown baby clothes on the floor of the laundry room, waiting to be washed, the bedsheet waiting to be turned into curtains for the baby’s sleeping cubby, for weeks now, the novel, waiting.

Venmo $230 to someone I don’t know so the 17-year old can run on their Hood to Coast team. A wad of cash I need to remember to take to the bank. No one is in the living room so I turn the heater off. The dog gets up to find a warm body in another room. The baby cackling in his crib. Forgetting to eat until noon and the coffee jitters are bad. The outer wrapping of the sausage pack is a crown perfectly sized to the baby’s head. Starter bread with salted butter and jam. Thin layers of wool under my new Saturday sweats. Bird splat of spit-up down the back of the sweater I knit for my husband. A note on top of the clean pile of laundry on the 16-year old’s bed: Put away, do not push to floor.

Remember the baby is 6-months old today and take a photo. Watch the execution of a man in Minnesota. Baby between my legs on the ground as we practice sitting up and read one berry, two berry, pick me a blueberry. Is the sound machine damaging my baby’s ears? Pump for 30 minutes with the sun through the window warming the back of my neck: 7 oz. Someone else’s novel-in-progress on the ipad.

Bone broth hot cocoa to-go because I have 1.5 hours to go to three stores. Circling and circling to park. These sweatpants are too long and I keep pulling them up. Wanting green apples and green apples only, that sour snap. 2pm frustration that I will not get everything done in the day. A man was murdered in Minnesota.

Chicken feet on a roasting tray at 350, and forgetting they’re in there while chatting about films and TV shows with a friend on the couch as we watch the baby slowly turn 180 on his play mat. The 17-year old is going on a walk, the 16-year old is going to the gym. Adding star anise and clove to the stock pot this time. A burp heard in the other room. A potted attar of roses geranium remembered and brought in from the cold. Pump for 30 minutes: 6.5 oz. Being human in 2026 will break your fucking heart. Brick my phone. Fill the kettle for the baby’s hot water bottle.

Fuzz and whine of the baby monitor. Pick up the stuffed kitty and teething ring and board book with a blue truck on it and pack it all away under the lid of the red stool. Fold up the play mat. See the floor for the first time all day. Every part of my body, in revolt.

Slow, slow stretch with legs up the wall of a warm, dark yoga studio (some Saturday night!). When I lie on my stomach I think: I need to pump, and prop my chest up on the shelf of my arms. My face is puffy and I don’t want to feel so like the cat with her thick winter coat on, so unfamiliar when I see myself in the mirror at class, but also I almost lost my supply and need the calories to keep it up. A full belly is why the baby sleeps through the night. Maybe if I sleep more, do less, ignore the news, my body won’t hold onto it all? Raised bumps on the skin behind my ear, a new rash. The body in revolt. The line spills out of the unmarked club across the street.

Pump for 30 minutes: 5 oz. The last weird pages of Tony Tulathimutte’s Rejection, overdue at the library. Richard Kind in my alma mater’s alumni magazine. So many people doing big things in my alma mater alumni magazine. Fingers sticky with grapefruit. The smallest suspenders and a peach snap suit, sour with spit-up. Magnesium capsules in the pillbox (forgot to take). Heating pad under my back in bed. Ant on my neck; is that where the bite on my cheek came from? Every part of my body, in revolt.

P.S. I’m writing a novel and I wouldn’t say I’m stuck, but I do feel resistant. Instead of sitting in that resistance, which was edging in on resentment, I decided to look up and take a weekend inventory of what was already in front of me.