Friday, December 30, 2005
I woke up this morning with Anne Lamott. In the form of Bird by Bird. We snuggled under my down comforter, fought over the quilts and made a ruckus. Pretty soon the whole house was awake. There was a soft knock on the door, a scratching really, and when we said, "Come in!" Madelaine bounced in, bringing with her a smell of engine grease and salt. She was wearing a t-shirt and an old pair of Eleven's boxers. Her feet were freezing and she gleefully found the warmest part of our thighs and froze them with her feet. Her toenails were scratchy. "Isn't this fun!" Anne yelled over the screams.
I rolled over again, only to bump into William.
"How did you get in here?!" I asked.
"What do you mean? I live here," he said.
And he rolled over, so all I saw of him was his broad back, like a wall. Before I could snuggle into the warm depression he left, the door flew open. Prester filled the doorway. I ducked behind Willliam's solid body. I opened my mouth to say "Go Away!" but before any words came out, Anne's hand snaked under the pillow and clamped over my mouth.
"We'll make room for you," is what she actually said. In two steps Prester was airborne. He landed right on my head. For a split second, I thought my neck was going to break if I didn't die of suffocation first. He was laughing loudly. We tried to roll him over, but he was too heavy. Finally we managed to wedge him between the bed and the wall. We all laid there, panting and giggling. Prester started to say something, but William shushed him. Then the rest of us heard it, a soft rustling, like fabric being dragged through leaves. We looked towards the open door, and there was the Baby. He was making his way towards the bed with the determination of a race horse approaching the finish line, only much slower. William shoved the blankets out of his way and stood up and grabbed him by his armpits and started giving him blubber kisses on his tummy. Then he carefully deposited him on top of the heap of blankets and bodies and returned to his place on the edge of my bed. I grabbed the Baby, and let him snuggle on my chest, while he tried to eat his fist. Through the tangle of blankets and limbs, I turned to Anne and said, "This is chaotic! So this is what writing is about?" She shrugged.