Enormous weakling pussy

Taking a break from running today. And not because the rainy season has finally hit - running in the rain is pretty nice - no flies trying to malinger on you or sun getting in your eyes. And not because I don't want to be running. And not because I can't; we have a few more precious days of Mum and she does try to shanghai the baby at every opportunity.

No, I'm not running today because I can't. Midway through the route I'd planned for myself yesterday my knee started hurting and I cut it short, and I know I have to take at least today off. It's only sensible. I'm big and fat and post-pregnant and haven't ran for a year, and my knees are crappy. No use taking a stand over it.

But you know what? It makes me feel like an enormous weakling pussy. That's a feeling I'm trying not to feel and certainly won't act on, because being willing to act on that feeling is what makes men dumber than women. Nonetheless it's kind of pissing me off. After Mum leaves on Thursday this is gonna get a whole lot harder.

Oh well. We're spending the Australian winter in the Canadian summer so things'll get easier again, and in any case it's just three more months or so until I can take more regular breaks from being right next to the boy, when he starts expanding his gastronomic repertoire. At the moment such breaks revolve around hoping he finishes feasting on my bosom right at a time when the UV index isn't too high and his father is present so I can get out of the house for a bit.

Where there are tongues, they will be fucking stilled, someday right?

Well, what the fuck is the point of talking all the time anyways? Isn't love expressed through actions, decisions, touches, mutual orgasms, presence, help and succour? What is love if it needs words piled on it to make it clear? Wouldn't that make it the province of lawyers and politicians beyond anyone else's? In that shtick in Corinthians that the blackest of atheists can generally choke out if they're asked to do a reading at a wedding, where's the bit that says you have to blah-blah-blah about your feelings all the fucking time like a fucking Jodi Picault novel about dying teenagers?

The F-word and I, this time around anyways, went about three years without trotting out the L-word, and we'd shovel shit in a shopping centre for a job if it meant being able to hang out together. I mean half the whole point of that is not having to talk about it all the time. So you can talk about other things, or have sex, or make babies, or whatever. Right? I don't know. I have a father who loves us and loves his wife and doesn't talk about his feelings more than a couple of times a year. I guess that learned me that men don't have to talk about their feelings on and on and on and on to have feelings. Nor do I.

For heaven's sake, though, isn't it obvious? I mean, if you love someone and respect them and trust them, surely you understand that they love you if they're still there with you and and doing nice things with, to and for you, and looking happy about it, right? I mean, hand-holding, for fuck's sake. Who holds your hand in public in an Anglophone country unless they love you a lot? People (usually women) complain about other people (usually men) being shitty emotional communicators, but who's the shitty emotional communicator if you can't pick up on something that fucking obvious?

So there.

Running on empty

First run in almost a year early this morning. My joints aren't pregnancy-loose anymore and mum is still here for a few more days to offer Godzilla support if he doesn't fall back to sleep after his early morning feed and the F-word wants to be a fucking diva. So it was time to start again. And it was lovely, even if I am back to being the winded maggot I was a couple of years back when I first started running, except fatter. And even though I'm being carefully unambitious so I don't hurt myself, or burn off the fat Godzilla needs to feed on exclusively for the next four months.

And even though, frankly, it's sort of painful to not spend that time cuddling with or staring at Godzilla instead of running. But health-wise there's not a choice. My environmental allergies are back in asmathic-Jewish-boy-before-coming-of-age-in-American-summer-camp-movie force and the only thing that keeps them at bay is lots of cardio, and when they're kept at bay I have a lot more energy and good mood to spend on Godzilla than I would otherwise.

Anyways, in a few more months, I'll pick up a running stroller from Luke Duke's awesome wife in Canada and start taking him with me.

And then there's needing to get in trim before I make any attempts to produce another fearsome behemoth. I really believe that getting into terrific nick is what allowed Godzilla's birth to be so comparatively untraumatic for all concerned, given my age and the gestational blood pressure problems. And I'm not getting any younger, and the countdown is on . . . I think I've decided to attempt to produce more progeny AFTER we've moved. And settled in a bit. Which means two years. Two years to get back into perfect nick, whilst juggling work, Godzilla, the next intercontinental move, getting rid of the house, the final Mandarin course in my certificate, and then German language study. I think that's possible. 

In shittier news, Elvis and his lady are splitting. At least, now, I hope they are, which I wouldn't have hoped before, given she's a pretty admirable sort of person. They've been in trouble for awhile but now it looks as though she's caught up with someone else. While they're still living together. Well, I don't judge people who can't keep it in their pants before the corpse is quite buried. I screwed my way out of my relationship with Bluebird and it worked really well. But I'm pretty disgusted all the same. It's my brother.

Sometimes I think one of the reasons I moved away is so I could go on loving my brothers as gods, and not have to see their embarassments or mistakes until they'd had time to compose themselves, and turn everything into a funny macho misadventure. I could still make fun of them for being foolish or drunks or any other manner of things, but still keep adoring them as larger than life awesome types without the frailties and vulnerabilities of normal people. But now that we're all approaching middle age I guess the facades can't stay up like that anymore. Ten years ago they were still so much older than me - not anymore. Not when we've all got such a big collection of years. 

More motherty

Mum's here, tolerating the record-breaking heat and playing with Godzilla. Godzilla has learnt how to smile, laugh, and talk and sing after his fashion, and it does my dry, cracked, bitter anarcho-syndicalist heart so much good to see her with him - and, good Lord, just to see him myself. I'd love him no matter what he was, but for him to be so lovely; the F-word is pretty great but how did we make such an awesome child together?

You may quote all that back to me in a few months or years when his sass starts doing my head in.

To illustrate parenty and the changes it's wreaked on me: we've agreed on the next destination. For now. Things can change, both in our heads and in the world. We're reckoning Cologne; it's closer to all our friends in Europe, closer to North America, and NRW will probably have better long term prospects as far as Godzilla and any possible future siblings of Godzilla are concerned than Berlin, which had been where I was determined to go. I understand if I wasn't a mother I'd certainly prefer somewhere like Berlin, or Barcelona, or Rome, or some other absolutely fucking awesome city. I also understand I don't fucking care in the least.

Suddenly what is probably best for Godzilla has 100% outweighed the fact that Berlin is cooler than Cologne and maybe I could do more cross-country skiing around there. Suddenly that seems retarded, in terms of priorities. Especially considering Cologne is a city I really, really like. And considering that basically deepest podunk Bavarian yodelling xenophobic Islamturkjudenrausrausrausappenzell is still about fifty times more effectively cosmopolitan than this white trash bogan shithole.