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  • Writer's picturelukederoy

Carrot Pizza

CARROT PIZZA

It’s 4PM. I’m at the dining room table, eating carrot pizza. Carrots don’t belong on pizza, in my opinion. Broccoli and onions, sure, but carrots? I guess the carrot makes some sense in this context. It sort of just happened this way. I cooked pasta for lunch, and for dinner she worked out the dough and just threw the sauce on. It works. Good thinking.

It’s 6AM. I’m watching a mother bird out the window sitting upon her eggs. She keeps me company while I eat my toast and drink my coffee. The sun is coming up and the sky is an explosion of fuchsia. It’s mid-April, and I breathe in the silence.

It’s 10AM. I am changing a diaper. Little legs are flailing and I’ve given up hope of making it through clean. I just want to accomplish the mission at this point. I finally do, and I lift him up, kiss him, and give him to his mama. He gets the boob. I walk out to the dining room, wash my hands, and say hello to the mother bird. I have a moment or two now. I look at her little head poking out, and I think of her eggs, yet to hatch. Mine has not only hatched but is running around and has developed quite the little attitude.

It’s noon. I’m slicing a cantaloupe. An egg is frying beside me. Behind me, in it’s hi-chair, is the jackhammer level yowl that you hear all about, but have no idea of its true extent until it’s scratching at your eardrums. Additionally, and harder to put into words is the emotional attachment there is to the tiny source of extremely loud misery. It’s the connection to the pangs of possibly exaggerated anguish that makes them so much more difficult to bear. It’s mine, that scream. His pain is my pain. I slide the melon pieces onto his tray and the screaming stops. I salt the eggs.

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon. I’m in the yard, and the day is warm. I hold my son’s hand as he baby steps through the grass. His other hand is wrapped around his mother’s index finger. Her hair shines in the sun, as her smile does. I take a deep breath. I am in love with my life.

It’s 7:30 PM. I am seated on the floor in the living room, books and blocks spread all around me. We are all fed and bathed. I am staring at the fourteen-and-a-half month old, trying to comprehend his existence. No matter how inexplicable, I spend my days toiling away trying to fathom his baffling beauty. He hands me a book to read. I say, okay, and open it up. He says, “Eeeee” and smiles, looking up.

It’s 8PM. I’m in the bedroom, looking down over his crib. I finish the last story. He knows it’s the last story, and when I close the book, he starts to cry. His face gets red, and he starts screaming louder. He sort of looks like a demon. I sure love him, though. I wonder how he can change so much. It’s amazing, the differences from hour-to-hour, day-to-day, month-to-month…

It’s 8:20PM. I’m sitting on the couch. She’s just finished cleaning something, and now is beside me. The jackhammer is going loudly behind the bedroom door. It hurts to hear, but it has to be done this way, we’ve decided together. It finally stops, the wailing, and I realize there are tears in my eyes. Up and down and up again we go; it’s a guarantee on this ride. And another guarantee: motion through time is forward only, never backwards. Moments between moments now hold the pieces of my life together like glue, because it is in between that I remember the events of my days in a way that I never will be able to again. My choices and their consequences are still fresh in my mind, in these moments between moments, and it's then that I relive them. I breathe in the silence.

It’s 4PM. I’m seated at the table. I’m eating carrot pizza. It’s really not that bad. The little boy walks between rooms and is asking/demanding that I blow bubbles, screaming loudly, “BUBBA, BUBBA,” then whispering, “bubbow,” then again, louder than before, “BAH BAH!” He’s really saying it. She and I exchange unspoken amazement with our eyes. I take a bite. It’s pretty good, actually. I find that the surprises I’ve been experiencing are bringing me a joy that I never would have experienced had things gone, say, an easier way. The word is compromise. Context is what provides the essence of beauty. I tried, before I had a child, to fully appreciate the importance of time. Now, I have no choice. The balance of everything, the counterwork at play, the potential to see situations from multiple perspectives at one time, have never been more apparent to me.

Maybe I got lost along the way, getting to where I am, but I am glad to feel that I’ve arrived. I have loved with all my heart the journey I’ve had thus far. Frustration is inevitable. The little boy doesn’t understand that we are frustrated, but I hope he understands that we love him.

The state of meditation that I am currently able to achieve automatically was impossible before I had a son. I can only sit now, in between moments, and bask in the aura of my fortune. I need not anything that I don’t already have. I can work with the difficulties, the temporary imperfections, and the compromises. These are gifts to me, from fate; weights that work and balance the meaning of my life. I now see beauty where before I could not, even if I spent the time trying. I can appreciate simple things in a new, perhaps poetic way. A mother bird in her nest, a moment spent in silence, looking out the window. Carrot pizza. I take a bite. It makes sense. It’s the most delicious thing I can imagine.




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