It's great to see you. I have a baby, yes, a girl. She's home now. With her dad. I'm not working, no, not really. We live in Gloucester. Just bought a house. What are you up to?

Hi! Yeah, this is great. I'm not sure if you saw me with my husband. I eat breakfast with a lot of men. But we've been married for seven years. No, just one, she's lovely. I like it a lot. Good to see you too.

So, you live in Gloucester still? Me too. I never see you. I have a baby. We walk downtown. What do you do with your time? Financial advisor? I never would have guessed. I play violin. At a third-grade level. Maybe fourth. What music have you been listening to?

Read any good books lately? I read that when I was pregnant. Yeah, I used to say when people asked if I wanted a boy or a girl that I wanted a boy OR a girl. She's a girl. Abigail. Tell your wife I'm sorry she didn't come. And I'm sorry. I hope she's doing well.

I remember catching minnows with you when we were in sixth grade. No, we only did it once, but the way they moved in the sun, shiny and silver... Your Abby is 4? She must be lovely. A tomboy? I guess mine will be too, with all of those cousins. We should get together sometime.

So, you knit? Me too. Do you remember when you pushed me out of our group of friends in sixth grade? It was for the better, I think, especially after seeing you all here. You look good, pretty hip, but what the hell does that get you in Gloucester? Anyway, I like your hair. I don't think I'll bring my film in anymore. I wonder what else your friends know about me now.

Have you got any extra drink tickets? It's good to see everyone. I'm not good at burning bridges but I'm great at letting them crumble under their own weight. I had a crush on you in seventh grade but you were cuter then. And less of a flake. Your engaged? And living in Kingston? I don't know why you would live there. But living here doesn't seem to matter much, nobody leaves their houses anyway. I'm a rare book dealer. Yeah, lots of money to be made there.

Funny, yeah. No, I get out a lot, even with the baby. I bring her to a bar on weekends to wacth soccer. A Scottish team. You don't play anymore? That's too bad. I can see your wife is furious with me for talking to you. That's okay. I'm just trying to talk to everybody I recognize. The airforce? New Jersey? Wow.

This is your boyfriend in the Red Sox shirt? Nice to meet you. We new eachother a long time ago. Used to swim to Ten Pound Island and flirt with tuna fishermen on the docks. You're living a few houses down from my sister. Are you still hanging out with the guy I had a restraining order on? I really never understood taking his side. I didn't ask anyone to take sides. Just not to tell him where I was going to be. That's okay. Everything passes.

Bathtub caulked, ceiling painted. Everything done means something left undone.

Slices of quince for breakfast. No runcible spoon- does that affect flavor? I always assume that fruit we Americans tend not to eat is tart and not suitable for smoothies. I like tart. The quince, however, is not tart. Its texture is a little grainy, like pears from the tree in the back yard. Its flavor is light, like watered-down old wine. A little musty. I think I will cook the rest to see if it improves.

I was just saying last night that I hadn't seen Woody HArrelson for along time and there he is today on Ellen. Doing Elvis.

Abigail has fallen asleep. Today isn't going so well. I had an idea of what I should do today but it depended on other people and they didn't know. I tried to tell them. Now I am contemplating the list of things I could do today. Paint the bathroom ceiling. Put weather stripping on the cellar door. Recaulk the bathtub.

None of these things sound good to me today.

When ABigail wakes up maybe I will drag her out. The car doesn't like starting these days but we are picking up some kids at Waring this afternoon. Maybe a little trip to Cabot Street. I'm sure we'll figure something out.

The thing about it is that you never know when someone is thinking about you. My ficus tree is dropping its leaves, I haven't found a place it likes in this house yet. Ficus generation.

I don't know what my options are but for this: I must not add to the confusion. Two new valves for radiators. I will master this system by spring. I need a mirror and clear plastic. Power tools and foam.

Each move leaves a six. This is Main Street, this is Rogers, that is Porter. Two bars closed. One owned by the cook from the White Lion, the other by a new friend. One building torn down at the station. Another one, as well, but earlier and already replaced. It's easy to mess things up these days. Just one slip and it's done. Note: Do not remove weight-bearing walls on the first floor. How many restaurants does any one person need? Or any three?

I used to read things and hope that they were written for me. I know better now.

Oil burner's broke again, we all have to break sometime. Ice cream is cheaper than Zoloft and doing the dishes tonight makes tomorrow better. Even if it's cold. Abby's talking to a ball and I am trying to keep a positive solitaire score until the diapers are ready for the drier. Or is it dryer? For the life of me I can't remember. Abby's talking is nearing crying.

Spit up on mu shoulder and I wonder what will give next. The neighbor tried to trade the cover of my garbage can for his ratty one in the wind this morning. Caught in the act. Not that he thought mine was his but it was easier than looking...

Electric heat upstairs so we won't be so cold. Isn't there always something to complain about? Life is good here with this little girl, her coos and smiles, and still I throw disinfecting wipes across the room. Because I don't get upset often I shouldn't get upset and when I do it doesn'y show so tonight I throw things and they come to an abrupt stop under the cold radiator. A couple tears and that doesn't help anything, family is still family and ashes thrown to Ipswich Bay can not be gotten back. Decisions made can not be changed when pride is on the line. You can't make a son visit his mother or a father visit his daughter. You can't stop a train wreck even if you see it happening.

Coffee with Gerrit this afternoon. Got a package from Glasgow, registered mail, signed for it at the post office. Walked down Dale Ave next to a man in Patriots gear who talked to me the whole time. Saw a woman at the Lone Gull who sort of knew me but couldn't figure how. Spoke with Jack at Mystery Train about babies and writing.

Abigail keeps turning her head like it's all the rage. Talk to the curtain. Wave at the light. Peek-a-boo! I see you.

I wish there were more Moomin books to read. That someone would stop by and say "Hey, want to go geet a quick drink?" That politicians didn't interupt soap operas. That I got more mail.

Why is it so hard to call repair people? Other people don't think they should be plumbers, carpenters and electricians. Why does it make me feel so useless?

Some good advice from eeksey peeksy.

Truth be told I am sick of cool. Like heavy talk with an upspeak like having a dream of talking like talking like yeah. Black and white and drunk and my art and yeah and wow. Of winning and losing and co-authors and blocking projects knit by other people. Complaining and matter and driving around looking at signs- Welcome home sailors and marines and soldiers and No More Bush and Lordy Lordy.

I have to admit I don't understand my boiler. How to keep the water in the glass tube right and which way to turn the vents. Can't afford to have the guy come show me and don't have the guts to admit it anyway. May go to the heating supply store near the state fish pier and ask with babe on my hip. It's cheaper that way. I need a new vent anyway.

What is this crap movie? Animated people talking about dreams. Crap. Referring to Lorca, of course.

I am also sick of weird.

If there are beautiful women at a party and I don't feel beautiful I am not one of them. I do not feel beautiful. I feel more like a machine. There is a list of things that need to be done and I will turn myself on and do them. I will turn myself off and rest. Repeat. No, that's not true. I wish I felt like a machine. There is a list of things I need to do but because I feel about too many things I can't seem to get them done.

I wish I were watching Monday Night Football with Jim Dunn.

Bills keep coming bills are always coming and no one no one knows how to pay them. Camper has a monkey shoe I can't resist but will. Tomorrow might bring me to Portsmouth for Kerry but the baby's in charge and I have no definite plans. Monkey shoes are in Portsmouth. Monkey shoes or boiler? Heat or food or fashion?

I need to say this before I forget: Fuck Curt Schilling.

A night without baseball and instead of sleeping like I should I go out. Six mothers to the Pickled Onion, first time out really for me without little Abigail. We talk about labor and politics and gossip we are all too far out of the loop to have. Out too late baby girl crying and I don't know how she can cry but she can.

She's lying on the floor now two months old and making the most delicious sounds. Spit up on my shoulder but the clothes don't make a girl the baby does. Slept too late today, I'll wake her up earlier tomorrow and we'll sleep for sure. Had another drink tonight to make me feel like I was with old friends. It didn't work.

Instead of falling back asleep after Baby Girl nursed this morning I am up and running. Trash out, two hand-me-down air conditioners moved from upstairs to down, kitty litter cleaned. Coffee half decaf today. If I am going to drink it all day I must compromise.

Fourteen of my father's old shirts are in the middle of my living room floor. My brother is having a baby. Naming him after my father. The shower is Saturday and I am making a quilt. From these shirts. From Richard. For Richard.

I never called my father Richard. Most called him Rick. I heard someone call him Dick in the supermarket once and decided then that I didn't like the name. It didn't worry me since I never used it. But after he died and I didn't know which kind the baby in my belly was I felt guilty, like maybe I should think of it. Like it is the right thing to do.

Funny that last day he was conscious, just barely. Monthly check-up in the morning, happy to be just about iver the miscarriage-hump, 12 weeks and hurrah! Celebratory sandwich at the Grange, mostly to see Zac, and when I finally got home 12 messages on the machine. He's not doing well. They're rushing him home in an ambulance to die. They don't think he'll make it that long. Meet at the house. Go to Mass General.

He wasn't talking anymore when we got there but was smiling and squeezing hands and when I told him the baby was fine, heard a heartbeat, this one is going to make it he squeezed my hand and smiled. Tear in his eye. He was so happy I was pregnant.

Now my baby is asleep across the room. The silly aqua and white shirt with the knit collar is on top of the pile. I am making a quilt for Richard out of it and for the life of me I can't do it. The Porter line will continue. What the hell does that mean? Last names. City officials shake my brother's hand, recognize him by name. And they will do the same for his baby- pay reverence to the name. As Abigail sleeps in near anonymity.

I've got to take scissors to the shirts on the floor. Cut them up. Make something new. I wish I had religion right now, that I believed he is somewhere looking down on what I am doing. That he sees Abigail in her cradle. That he's seen her smile. She's cooing now, in her sleep. I've got to go.

Feeling a little disoriented, maybe alienated. Looked online to find my friends but I can't remember which go where. Looked for Pedro's midget, knit Ugg boots, a place to fit in. My arms are tired. I am tired. Could be from the weekend still, could be the non-stop nursing. Baby Girl is on the floor and I should be putting out the trash in this time.

Busy weekend, too much time out. Too much too much too much. Red Sox win tonight and it feels late because the game is over. Last week games at Gerrit's, games and debates and what's the difference? Hitchhikers turn into white crosses. Memorial mass and Abby could be a Catholic for Halloween, no?

Turn the heat on, steam out the back of the furnace. Basement full of steam, no heat, new valves no use and the oil man on the way. Two trips later and heat for the baby, quiet hissing in each room. This will be the soundtrack to our lives.

I don't know what to do tomorrow. Aside from the list of things I have been putting off. Insurance company, IRS, thank-you notes and scones. I should build radiator covers before the baby can crawl. Abigail is watching the debate. All she sees in contrast.

Sunday one day after one month. These moments are hard to find and I should be doing more with them—laundry, dishes, find my clothes. One thing I know to be true: these things will still need to be done. They will not go away.

I bought a camera yesterday and have been wasting time with it since. Pictures of the baby girl. She’s eating her fingers like they’re just another meal.

She’s sleeping now. I got the black skirt I bought to wear to my father’s funeral out of the cellar and fixed the seam that had come undone at the slit. I am going to a wake this afternoon, for my father’s neighbor. At one month after birth I am about the same size as I was at almost two months pregnant. At least I hope I am, I haven’t tried the skirt on. I haven’t got anything else to wear so it must be true.

I should go now and get ready. Abigail is getting into more of a routine; I hope to be able to write more often.

Finding both my hands free for the first time in weeks, dinner done and waiting and Baby Girl on her daddy’s shoulder. Nurse nurse nurse- my daily routine. Little bits of doing things in between. Mostly laundry, mostly diapers, an occasional walk. She sleeps well most nights and I sleep

Wrote that last night, the time was short-lived. Right now the baby is sleeping and that worries me. If she is sleeping now will she sleep later? If she doesn’t sleep later when will I sleep? Strike that, little sounds of waking are coming from where she lies. Some like stretching, some like cooing, some about to be upset that I am not changing or feeding her.

Before I need to go I should say that I read your email and will write back soon, I hope. I look forward to seeing you, hopefully I will make it, but it is too early to promise. It all depends on the baby girl.

Quick note- while I was checking my email I took that quiz about fucked-up composers and was Joe Strummer. A girl (woman, I should say) I knit with is good friends with a woman who was married to Joe Strummer when he died. This knitter also has a mother-in-law who lives in London and is called London Joan. London Joan calls from London and says “This is London Joan.” London Joan sends European baby clothes. Gloucester Abby get them handed down and finds they suit her well.

One week old. I don't know what to say. Waking up to see that she is breathing, singing to her wrapped in my arms. New sleep patterns, new ways for everything. Watching her eyes lighten from steel grey to blue. Changing her and dressing her and taking good care. Friends stop by with love and fruit. Holding her close, as close as I can.

Abigail Faulkner Aisling Cook
born August 25, 2004
at 5:49 p.m.
8 lbs. 2 oz.
19 inches long

Looks like there should be some news soon.

Had something to drink, something to eat, and took a good look around. I'm feeling much better now.

Instead of napping when I should have I read a book. Now I feel flustered like I ften do after reading a book in one sitting, unable to seperate the book from myself or my thoughts from the book. The boy in the book was afraid of things he didn't have a system for. I am afraid of things I don't have a system for.

Driving home in the rain my stomach hurt. It hurt on and off while I was reading and my lower back too but in no pattern. I was lying down and it is hard for me to tell sometimes when I am lying down because my hips can hurt as well. Now I am sitting up and I feel fine. Better, at least.

I am unsettled by never having done this before. And by the fact that there is no pattern to follow, no right way. My uterus contracts. I feel pain. Nothing happens for hours or days. My back hurts and this is normal. And it could mean nothing. I am afraid the book had something to do with this-- I was not unsettled before. Unsure, yes, uncertain, of course, but not unsettled.

It is my mother's birthday. She thought I would have the baby today. She is bucking the system and thinks it is a boy. Because I have an innie. It would have to be an incredibly short labor to make today the day. I have been counting on a longer prelabor to tie up loose ends. I think I will tie them up now. Maybe then I won't feel unsettled. But I don't just want to wait. Having things undone means I am not just waiting. My head is woozy, I am going now. To get something to drink. And tie up loose ends.

Walked downtown for black cohosh and ginger teas. Lala at the Lone Gull, humidity bothersome and feet swolen. Sausage and pasta at Trupiano's. Home walking tired feet and heat and longer from the train tracks with belly contracting but not progressing. Nap with Gata.

Cook sausage, remove, add olive oil, enjoy the smell. Add garlic and onions, the other half of last night's eggplant bitterness bled out. Tomato. Oregano. Basil. Move the table out for four for dinner, only three end up eating. Zac in effect via cd. More arrive late, then more on no particlular time. Too tired to move for much the rest are held captive by our one-channel tv and the Olympics.

Just one day late, too early for the risk of cohosh but not too soon for ginger. Sister says the baby will come on Mother's birthday, so it can be about her. Those who know say try for a Virgo. Painful contraction this morning but oly one. That won't do at all. Warm night, sleep may come hard or not at all. New neighbor. Lock the doors, try not to worry. Don't worry. Gata is already witing upstairs. I'm off to bed.

Monday morning. Did the dishes, swept the floor, nearly done with the laundry. I never thought I would enjoy laundry this much.

Watching movies lately, what else to do at 9 months? The rumor that I don't like movies is not true. I just like to watch them at home where I can do something useful at the same time. Or at Gerrit's, where he treats me like a princess.

Odd couple of days there, Friday and Saturday. Down, not out, but down and not happy about it. Family information I am uncomfortable knowing. Makes me think in a way I don't like to think. Friday baby slow to move, or just sleepy, who knows. But enough of a change to make me worry. Might have been me doing too much and not taking the time to feel little kicks and nudges. Could be because it is a little more cramped in there than before. Saturday spent being more still, eating more regularly. Kicks back to normal. Friendly faces in the afternoon and evening. Mystic Pizza. Irby's lemon tart. Tea in a big cup.

There is so much longing right now I hardly know what to do with myself. Make lists. Cross things off lists. Make new lists. List of lists:

* people to call when I have a baby (find phone numbers)
* people to email when I have a baby (make email list)
* things to pack for the hospital
* movies to get
* things that need to be done before I bring Baby home

If you have anything I should add to my lists or my lists of lists let me know. I haven't done very well with them yet.

My grandfather finally opened the pool, no locust trees this year and even no chairs. But I can go and pack more junk, swim. Remember mermaid days. Skin sliding through the water, light and music from the barn as friends shoot pool. Night swimming, naked, when the air is as cool as the water. Swimming until teeth chatter and limbs are useless, finding my way inside, sleeping with the moon in the window and off the water.

Hips are sore in the morning, the weight of the womb and all. The sun wakes me long before the bus honks outside for Eric, the boy who lives in our backyard. Took a bath into a shower and back into bed. Why can't I stay naked in bed all day? For modest visitors I would pull the covers up to my chin. Getting dressed is such a hassle these days.

Gerrit arrives for coffee and Portugese sweet bread, new corn broom in hand for the new house. Gooseberry jam and Xtina's condiments. Gata wants out the back door, asks politely with one paw raised. I still say no. Bag of baby clothes left on the back porch, no note, but 12 months written in a hand I recognize.

Nap time, morning nap, Gata with paws crossed over my hand as I sleep. One hour of sleeping and one hour of thinking. Thinking of you, of all of you. I am starting to say sentimental things and I hope you don't mind.

Sent home last night with leftover turkey, open-faced sandwiches for lunch. No cranberries but dried, thrown in a pan with some orange juice then zzzed. New table in the kitchen, old diner table kept for years in my father's basement, moved from James's grandparent's house. A better shape for facing eachother. Wooden table into the study.

Off now to the old house, to get plants and cinder blocks and wood for building shelves. Mirror and the wedding present from Chris. Painting of me at age 5 riding the carousel at St. Peter's Fiesta, wearing my favorite dress. Maybe the antique cradle. Medium dishes for serving sweet bread toast to your favorite people.