My daughter very nicely asked me last weekend to bring home the swimsuits that Grandma purchased last fall on clearance. Of course I forgot. So this morning as I lay rubbing the sand from my eyes, still prone on my very lovely slightly padded mattress, she reminded me again. I asked her to write me a note, with pictures, using her Kindergarten spelling. She did, and here’s what it said:

DO NOT FOUR GET THE BADEN SOOS MOM

Now, swimsuits will forever more be known in my home as “baden soos”. (Don’t worry – I made sure she knew she did a great job, and she smiled big through Daddy’s teasing.)

That picture up there is the view from my chair out the back door of our house when the weather’s nice and we bother to open the drapes. You can see exactly half of the car, a large chunk of our garage, and a giant power pole. There’s just enough room between the garage and the pole to back up a regular sized electrician’s van, and thus also my car. Yes, it’s a tight squeeze.

How do you feel about other people’s bad days? I’ve always thought it was impolite for me to answer honestly when someone asks how I’m doing and all I have to say is, “I want to die, really. Give up writing forever and just die in a pool of my own disgusting nature.” I mean, that’s a conversation killer at best, and at worst, the other person will ask what’s wrong, what’s going on, and how can they help.

Some of you may know first hand how when you’re feeling like that, you don’t really want to talk to anyone else. Or even better, you can’t even talk about it, because you don’t honestly know what’s making you feel like the crap hanging on the fur of your overweight cat’s butt.

But I know someone who actually wants to actually hear that kind of thing (the “I want to die” kind of thing, or the “I’m about to lose my house” kind of thing), because then this person can feel like they aren’t alone. And really, except for kids who are suffering from ennui but end up sharing stories of how, “I’m so depressed today,” and then get in arguments with their friends over who is more ”depressed”, nobody usually talks about being upset/depressed/bored/wanting to die. Except maybe with their therapist or husbands behind closed doors.

Not with folks from work. Or from their writing group. Or with folks on the Internet.

So back to the question. Do you want to hear about people’s bad days? Or do you just not want to see them until they’re feeling better? I understand it’s different for “bestest friends furever” and relatives. What about the folks online who are really no more than acquaintances?

And just one more random thought. Why does Taco Bell taco meat smell like farts once you’ve spilled it on your clothing? Don’t actually answer that. I enjoy my Cheesy Gordita Crunch too much to want to know that particular truth.

There are a lot of women that, once they find that style that flatters them most, keep that style for the rest of their lives. (Or at least for several years, until their hairstylist goes out of business and they’re forced to find someone else who never does it quite the same. You know who I mean.)

There are women who trim their hair themselves for various reasons, including but not limited to frugality, complete lack of funds, or the lack of anyone around them willing to do to their hair what they want done to it.

Some women can change their hair every week, going from super short pixie cuts to shoulder length bob, to extensions that fall to their lower backs, and then back again within the same month! These women either are very skilled hairdressers, or have very skilled hairdressers at their disposal, because I don’t know anyone who can grow their hair that fast. (Wish mine would, though.)

And there are more than just a few women just like me. They pay for an awesome haircut, then neglect to go for trims, letting it grow out until it really starts to look (and behave) horribly, and then…

Get it all chopped off. Very short. So short, you’re unlikely to recognize them.

Some of those women will talk about their upcoming surgical removal from their security blanket, even though it stands to reason that the people who care most about it already know (themselves and their hairdresser of choice). Others will let their haircut sneak ninja style upon their family and coworkers, excusing themselves for a long lunch and coming back as someone completely different.

Oh, you can probably figure out what I’m doing here. I’ve had a rotten week and I didn’t post yesterday, and now I’m babbling on about the haircut I’m about to get in two Saturdays because I have nothing else to talk about and it was fun to draw a picture of a girl with hair and a pair of scissors. You found me out. I’m just going to go back to ignoring the world now, and hopefully I’ll feel better by the time I have to post something else and my content won’t be crap.

We are a family of musicians. My parents both played in the band growing up, I played the flute, one of my sisters-in-law and her husband are both band teachers, and my son took on the challenge of the violin this year in school.

Tonight was his concert, and they sounded pretty good for a bunch of kids who had probably no more than 8.5 months of practice per seat. First year orchestra kids play pretty good.

The best part was after. Now keep in mind that my son, sweetheart that he is, doesn’t always enjoy going to concerts, especially classical, Christmas, or church music. To quote, “the sweet, sweet music makes me sad.” Honestly, he tears up, and I think it is so cool that he’s so emotionally touched by something like that. But back to after tonight’s concert. It was after my husband and daughter were in bed, and my son was working on his homework. He said,

The best part of my day was when Daddy told me he was more proud of me today than ever before in my life. I tried not to cry…

Me too, buddy. Me too.

My favorite thing about my mother

My mom is the person I call when I have news to share, because she gets just as excited about silly stuff as I do. My husband, sweetheart though he is, won’t laugh with me about my new Lime Kiln discovery, or commiserate about that one person that drives me nuts at work. Mom will, and will often have similar stories to share that I can get excited about with her.

My favorite thing about being a mother

My kids fight, and bicker, and whine, and cry, and often fail to realize why they need to take responsibility for their actions. But when my daughter hands me a card she made for me at school with hearts and butterflies and pictures of her and I, or when my son writes a heartfelt letter to The Tooth Fairy in a plea to wait for his sister’s tooth and not give up and stop coming, those are my favorite things.

I am looking forward to a very strictly scheduled day tomorrow, as one of the things my son has done is to create a checklist schedule for me. He’s letting me sleep in (until 7:00 a.m. – ?!?!?), and has time for me to watch whatever I want to in the morning, while kid’s time is strictly in the afternoon after rest (where I must wake promptly at 3:00 p.m.) His library opening is sometime in the afternoon, too. I’d better make sure I have some money on hand, because the idea of a lending library hasn’t quite kicked in as something fun.

My daughter brought home a flower from school on Thursday, and already I can tell that she’s learned that Mommy has a black thumb. Despite that the flower holds a pink heart with her picture on it and is clearly a Mother’s Day gift, she has claimed it for her own. She wants to plant her flower tomorrow (actually, she really would have preferred to do it Friday after we bought her some dirt for her flower), and she has to water it and make sure it gets enough sunlight. We even called Grandma, the flower expert (note – not Mommy), to get instructions on whether the water goes on the dirt, or on the petals.

What is your favorite thing about your mother, or about being a mother, or both?

Happy Mother’s Day!

Weekend!

Except of course this week.

I had a whole week off of work, and it was fabulous! I worked on a side project, I wrote like crazy (well, not as crazy as I had been in April, obviously, but crazier than before April), and I got to do neat things like nap, see The Avengers, and wash dishes during daylight hours!

This morning as I went to pick up my caffeine, I thought to myself, “Aw, man, it’s Friday already? I don’t want it to be Friday! I want yesterday to be a dream, and today to be Thursday again!”

Luckily I didn’t say this out loud, as the harried cashier serving me may have reached over the counter to silence me with a firm grip around the throat.

But it’s Friday, and after two more short days (one of which is Mother’s Day, which my kids have been preparing for the last two weeks or so), I’ll be back in the office.

I don’t want to be back in the office. I want to be here, at home at 9:42 in the morning, with a pile of dirty dishes awaiting me in the kitchen and a story waiting to be written.

I think it’s time to play the lottery.