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Does It Know Not to Grow?

According to the bank clock, it was 62 degrees today. It was a beautiful day I only had to look in my front garden bed to tell you the flowers think its spring. Some bulb, probably a daffodil, has decided that now is the time to make its yearly entrance into the world. And who are we to stop it.

At first, when we saw the bulb and its companions bursting out of the earth in this untimely fashion, we wanted to fret. No, no it’s not spring yet. Get back down in the ground. You have another couple weeks to go. The groundhog hasn’t told us when you are coming. Doesn’t a rodent know better than a plant?

But this morning I said… you know, this could mean that we just get a whole other bloom out of the year. Just think, maybe we get two springs. Who wouldn’t want that? Like having two childhoods to enjoy. Although there’s something irreverent about those irises peering out above a blanket of snow, maybe the bulb will bloom then hibernate and then bloom again.  I’ll keep my eye on it and letcha know.

 

Saturday Chillin’

You know that daggone bug was still in my system slightly yesterday. I’m calling it the morning sickness flu. Thankfully, I just ate breakfast and feel normal. The up side is that I lost a couple pounds. Part of that is also due to not being my wine drinking self as well. And I am happy enough to have a glass or two this evening while we’re out. But home consumption will be restricted in the hopes that more pounds will miraculously drop off. If you know me, that’s big.

I am enjoying a Saturday morning alone in the house. Yes, it’s true enough. All by myself. Without anyone else here. Solo mio. And what do you suppose I’ve chosen to do? E-mails, vacuuming, and laundry. All the things you’d want to do if you had time to yourself. Company coming tonight and tidbits of Christmas are still lurking in the dining room. This was also the sight for floral arrangement-athon yesterday. Messy business those florals. And I’ve decided that the visual decorative arts are such a strong part of my “thing” that I will build the necessary platform in this blog for everyone to see what I’ve been up to. Show and tell and why not?

Am contemplating what next week will make me do. Because what I really want to be doing is this. Writing. Yes, when you do what you love, money may follow. but really, there’s everything to be said for the feeling of well being and accomplishment you get having birthed, added to your body of work, and completed a new piece of you. I’d love to get paid and published but I’ll settle for the world’s reward for my love’s labors. Stay tuned.

 

My Daring Derriere

I know everyone was worried about me this weekend but you needn’t have been. I was just throwing up on Saturday night. And since my husband’s puke-athon in Hawaii in November, he couldn’t stand to be around during my episodes, much less help. So after I finished each round of barfing, I got up and rinsed out my bucket myself.

That was followed by 36 hours of a morning sickness like feeling. But, Hey, I lost a pound or two. But today, I had another indignity visited upon me. Gassy butt from hell. Great billowing fart-gas clouds issued forth from my butt with such tenacity, I and my household were both impressed and frightened.Since a bunged-up bowel is an inevitable result of the dehydration from throwing up, I had taken a fiber pill. And today, I blew up like a helium balloon, completely unable to enjoy the space in my jeans I’d made from days of not really eating.

I had a lovely day talking and visiting with new friends and old. And I’m certain it might have taken some of that lovely away  had they heard or smelled the gargantuan toot-toots being emitted from this Mama’s derriere. Proudly, I didn’t flinch as I pinched them back just enough to muffle them into  the various chairs my butt was upon. I felt an almost giddy amazement in these continuous and relentless gaseous emanations. And not being caught was a little giddifying too.

I’m pretty sure I was unsuspected pubically for the most offensive day in my butt’s history since…well I don’t remember it ever being this bad. And if anyone did in fact notice, my sincerest apologies. But I wasn’t about to stay home today after being stuck in the house with an off of school six year old all of yesterday.

Be glad, the siege is now over. You don’t have to avoid me in public, really.

The State I’m In

Alas, I contracted the same thing my kid had last weekend that had him in our bedroom at 2:45 am with puke down his arm. Sadly, I will never think of white bean and kale soup in the same way. Wish me a speedy recovery and no more “episodes”. Good might.

My Boy and a Girlfriend

 

On MLK day, I watched my six year old son as he and this little girl did the fluttering swirling dance that butterflies do as they ascended the spiral staircase inside the cage at the McDonald’s Playplace, their faces sometimes six inches apart. When they separated, one down the slide, one not, she called his name incessantly. I heard it at least 50 times. Her repeated cries were lyrical and full of necessity.

She needed for him to pay constant attention to her for at least an hour straight. And he needed her attention just as badly it would seem.The way he mooned at her, you’d think we’d never paid attention to him. I felt a kindred spirit in that girl. She has learned her temptress ways from an obvious master. As I recall, she had it down in Kindergarten too. The meeting at the restaurant was just a chance rekindling of an old flame. Or there was a storm and he was the available port.

 

My boy asked his Dad / my husband the next day if he’d had girlfriends when he’d been in school. That was a big ten four little buddy. And I remember being my kid’s age and marrying a kid named Jeff in a play/pretend ceremony. We were dressed as bunnies in leotards. He was in gray and I was in black. So romantic. Until my one longtime girlfriend from grade school told me this first grade Romeo was marrying all the girls in our first grade.

 

I can admit I saw my future flash in front of my eyes at the McD’s. I hope that in 6th grade and beyond, he’ll be a lunkhead and won’t comprehend the girls liking him. He’ll be too busy with his sports or academics to notice. It’s my hope that his self-esteem is at least mid-grade when he get’s hit with the hormonal storm. And that he’s not attracted to the un-savable girls. That was his parents’ MO and I would hate for it to be his. Yet, it’s his destiny, not mine. My plan is to smile and invite the possible vampires in for dinner, crumble holy crackers around their chairs, and ask them all the uncomfortable questions as to keep them in the light until they ignite and burn with the truth right in front of his eyes. A mother can dream.

 

 

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