I dug a big hole today. It was fun.

I was not a fan of this bush.  It blocks the light. It has big dead leaves all the time.  Recently MQD and I discussed the fact that he isn’t really a fan of this bush, either.

The Offending Bush

I am also not much of a fan of sitting around on my ass.  Unfortunately (for this bush) I woke up this morning not much of a fan of doing laundry or emptying the dishwasher or going to the gym.

So, I started hacking at the bush with a bolt cutter (like you do.) I gave it an all over inspection and made peace with the fact that my ordinarily green self was most definitely going to kill this bush. Sorry, little birds from last spring, but you will not be moving back into that old nest.  I saved that branch with last year’s bird nest for last and captured the Horton Hears a Who-ness of the moment.

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The hacking at the branches was a good time.  It was satisfying.  Quick actions and immediate results.  And then I started to dig.  And dig.  And dig.  My tiny helper grew weary and began to ask “You can’t do it, Mom? You can’t do it?”

Oh.  I can.  And I will.  But it was not a particularly good time.  20140415-130548.jpg

I dragged the zillion pound root ball to the end of the driveway.  Lucy asked “All done?  Nap time?”

Nope.  I explained that the fun part was over and now we had to clean up.

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So.  That’s what we did today.

I skipped the gym.  But I got good and sweaty.

Sweaty Mama

I suppose I will go back to the gym tomorrow.  I can’t just keep digging up my yard.  Right?

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Just Do It

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“You’re a beast!” “ROCK STAR!” “Congrats! You’re my hero!!”

My friends and family have been pretty free and easy with the pats on the back and the “way to go’s” since yesterday.  I will admit to being pretty proud of myself.  I ran my first half marathon yesterday and it was hot and hilly.  I set a goal for myself and I met it in spite of the crummy and unexpected conditions.

But I don’t feel like a hero because I ran 13.1 miles.  It is a half marathon, after all. I am only half crazy, no 26.2 for this girl (yet.)

You know when I did feel pretty spectacular? I had q-tips between my teeth and my cheeks and I was grinning ear to ear at the race expo on Friday afternoon.

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It turns out I really do love swabbing.

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In less than a minute of my day I donated some tissue and consented to be entered in to a worldwide registry of bone marrow donors.  The woman behind the table said “Are you interested in registering with Delete Blood Cancer?” and I said “Sure.” It was that easy.

I came home that evening and looked it up.  What did it really mean?  It means that someone somewhere with a blood cancer might not be a good match for any of the 9.5 million existing donors.  They might still be waiting for a donor that matches.  It might be me.  Or you.

There is a 1 in 500 chance that I will end up donating bone marrow or stem cells to a person with blood cancer.  You might think, oh wow, with odds like that why bother?  Well, that’s why.  With odds like that  - Delete Blood Cancer and Be the Match and organizations like these need as many people to register as possible.

As soon as I got a driver’s license I checked the Organ Donor box. If I have a chance to help someone after I am gone than by all means, I want to.  I have donated blood numerous times and will continue to do so.  But I had no idea until this past Friday that I could register to donate bone marrow or stem cells to a blood cancer patient.

I read all of the material and it scares me a little.  I don’t like hospitals.  Anesthesia freaks me out.  I am not wild about needles and being hooked up to a machine that is draining me of anything for more than a few minutes is a little worrisome. The process of donating if you match a patient is fairly unpleasant and would leave me feeling less than up to par for a few days.  But I imagine someone with leukemia or lymphoma or myeloma probably isn’t wild about hospitals or needles, either. And I’d be willing to guess that cancer probably leaves you feeling pretty crummy.

I really wanted to write a race recap post today.  But every time someone has asked me “How was the Raleigh Rock ‘n Roll Half?” I have wanted to answer “It sucked, it was hot and hilly but did you know that you can register to donate bone marrow without doing anything invasive?  It’s a q-tip in your mouth, that’s it!”

Two runners died during the race yesterday.  I have been thinking about their families a lot in the last 24 hours.   Life is so short. So many people that I have talked to have remarked that it is so shocking and sad that these two men passed away when they were “healthy.”  Healthy people get blood cancer every day.  And then they aren’t healthy anymore. Then they are counting on you and me to give them a fighting chance.

If you are in good health and you are between 18 and 55 you are eligible to donate bone marrow or stem cells to a patient with blood cancer.  There is a slim chance that you will be matched with a patient, true.  But there is a slimmer chance that the patient will find a match if you don’t register.  In keeping with the sporty theme – Just Do It.

 

 

Premature Double Fist Pump

It was supposed to sound casual.  “I’m still filthy from my run, I will just mow the grass really quickly.”  I was afraid to sound too excited.  Spring could throw the brakes on and it could be snowing before I had the shed door unlocked.

My fondness for mowing the grass is not a secret.  The girls and I spent much of Spring Break at the beach and when we got home Spring had sprung  There were buds on the azaleas and the trees were green.  There were weird spots of long grass in our yard.  I could mow.  It was time.  You know, just pull the old lawn mower out and give her a whirl.  Why not?

I pulled the mower out of the shed and confidently pushed it around to the front yard.  I gave it a yank.  I gave it another yank.  Years ago I had a mower that I could never start and I routinely had to suck up my pride and ask our neighbor to start it for me.  Not anymore.  This puppy is only a year old.  It starts up like a beauty every time.  I gave it another yank.  Nothing.  I stepped back.  I took a deep breath and I gave it one more yank.  The delicious sound of “I can’t hear you, Go ask your father, I am mowing the grass” filled the air and I was off.

And silence. The mower would only run for five, maybe six seconds. Shit. Tried it again.  Same thing.

Things that do not work make me insane.  Tools, technology, teenagers – I look at them all with my best RuPaul face and think “You better work, Bitch.”

I took Shop instead of HomeEc.  I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.  But I didn’t opt for the Automotive Technology Certificate in high school.  Engines and I have a limited understanding of one another.  The only thing I knew about this lawnmower is that I had done nothing but put gas in it since we bought it last summer.

Aha!  Gas.  I sort of lost a small part of our gas can last summer.  It has sort of been plugged with a piece of duct tape for months.  I know.  Not smart.  Not the losing it or the having a not exactly closed gas tank in the shed for the better part of a year.  I have already been informed of my stupidity, rest assured.  But maybe my semi-open gas can was to blame for this?  To the store I went for a siphon and a new gas can.  I would get this crappy gas out of my beloved mower and it would run like a top once again, right?

It is easy to feel like a high roller when you are buying two gallons of gas.  Super Premium for me, please. Old gas removed, new gas poured in.  Started right up! And stayed running! By this time I was feeling a little over-confident.  Maybe I should check the oil.

One more trip to the store and my mower had oil, premium gasoline and I was considering wiping the blades down with a rag.  I had all but made love to this machine in my driveway,  I was ready to mow the damn grass.

Halfway across the lawn on my first pass and I looked up to see my beloved family sitting on the porch.  I did what any full-grown woman would do and I leapt in the air and did a double fist pump and shouted “Yesssss!”

I looked like this most of yesterday, except I was much less clean.

I looked like this most of yesterday, except I was much less clean.

You know what happened, right? A terrible choking sound and white smoke billowed out from the engine.  Too much oil.  It had to be the culprit. By the time I added the oil I was kind of in a hurry and my checking of the dipstick was more of a cursory glance than a legit “checking of the oil level.”  Not a problem. I happen to have a siphon now.

Oil removed. Oil checked.  More smoke.  At this point there was only one small compartment left on my mower that I had not investigated. Wasn’t there an air filter? There had to be, right?  Engines have those, right? Yep.  When I popped open the door and removed the filter it was dripping with oil.  Dripping.  This was an air filter, not an oil filter.  It did not look good.

Perhaps sensing my frustration with this project MQD promptly put the filter in a ziploc bag and sped back to the store.

I did mow my grass yesterday.  And it usually makes me feel accomplished.  But I also diagnosed my engine problem (shitty, old gas,) fixed the problem by siphoning the gas, changed my oil, adjusted my oil and replaced my air filter.  Did I buy a 22 oz beer at the gas station on my last and final trip?  You bet I did.

Just in case you are one of those sexist assholes that wonders what my husband was doing while I was fixing the lawn mower  you should know that he was elbow-deep in a heart attack in the kitchen.  What did we have for dinner last night? Bacon Explosion.  And a salad, of course.

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Bacon Explosion by MQD

 

Inherent Worth & Dignity

Unitarian Universalists promote seven principles.  The first principle is the inherent worth and dignity of every person.  This week I was reminded that my eight year old is a far superior Unitarian Universalist than I may ever be.  Because after she told me what happened to her on the school bus I was really struggling to see the inherent worth and dignity in one particular little girl.

She was crying when she came up to the front door so it took me a short while to get an answer.  “Did something happen at school, Em?”

“Mom, she said I am a bad person.  She said I can’t be a Girl Scout if I don’t believe in God. She said if I don’t have God in my heart than I have the devil in my heart.”

I wrapped my arms around her tightly while she caught her breath.  And the words, the words that came tumbling from her lips next made me more proud than I have perhaps ever been. “I told them that I am a Unitarian.  And that I do go to a church actually. And that my church says you can believe in whatever you want.  I am a good person.  I am.  How could that God want to punish me when I didn’t even say anything mean when they were telling me that I was a bad person?”

The part of me that wants to start talking and never stop when I don’t know what to say exactly worked hard to stay quiet.  The less I said the more she spoke and the more I realized I needed to say nothing.

“The Girl Scout pledge says God but so does the Pledge of Allegiance. You don’t have to believe in God to be an American so I don’t think you do to be a Girl Scout.”

I kept quiet.  I was waiting for the shame, for the doubt, for the “what if they are right, Mom?”

“There is only one thing that I wish was different about our church.  I wish it wasn’t in the woods.  It’s kind of hiding and if we were right next to the road more people would know about us and more people would come because I bet a lot of people actually think that it is okay to believe whatever you want and just be a good person.”

She knows.  She knows she is a good person.  And it doesn’t matter what the Girl Scouts think.  Or a kid on the bus.  Or God.  She just knows.

In the last year I have thought frequently about our first principle as it applies to others.  I think about it in the moments that I try to apply my reality to another person and I see them coming up short.  I remind myself that they are their own person, they live their own reality, they have their own inherent worth and dignity.  It never dawned on me that if you believe in your heart of hearts in your own worth, in your own dignity, if you do not have self-doubt – it is so much easier not to condemn others.

My sweet Emily June, you have taught me more in your eight years than I may ever teach you.  This can’t be your first rodeo, kid.

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An Exercise in Letting Go

I am a creature of habit.  Wake up. Eat.  Do stuff.  Sweat.  Do more stuff.  Eat. Shower.  Do more stuff. Eat.  Repeat.  Last week was tough on me.  There was a lot of Eat and plenty of Do stuff but not enough Sweat.  The plan was to taper my running back in order to feel fresh and strong for Saturday’s 25K.  It didn’t work out exactly as I had planned.

I went to yoga. Twice.  The first time I went I boogied out of there before savasana.  The idea of just chilling, flat on my back for ten minutes was making me crazy.  I had a routine to maintain.  I wasn’t Sweating.  And now I wasn’t evening Doing stuff. I ran a few miles and called that my savasana.  Savasana is your Happy Place, right?  Running is my happy place.

The second time I walked in to class hell-bent on staying.  It is not uncommon to focus on an intention at the beginning of class.  “Stay until the end…. Stay until the end….” I sat, cross-legged and eyes closed, and focused on what was surely the lamest intention for a yoga class ever.  Don’t leave.  Quiet the mind? Forget it.  I just wanted to stay physically present in the room.

We were still in seated meditation when I noticed the clock was missing.  Surely it had been hung up elsewhere in the room.  I’d find it.

Standing.  We were finishing a set of sun salutations and I had managed to inconspicuously look all over the room. There was no clock.

It is hard enough for me to unplug.  My cell phone was on the other side of the room.  And now there was no clock. I had no idea what time it was.  This laid-back yoga class might just have me sweating yet.

We were in triangle pose when I started to freak the fuck out.  How long had we been here?  And I was freezing.  The class before ours had turned the air conditioning on evidently because even our teacher finally remarked on how cold it was in there.  She kicked the thermostat up and we carried on.

Through pigeon and into some seated twists.  We had to be half-way through, right?  An hour class, we’d have balance poses last in all likelihood and that would leave time for ten minutes in savasana.  I was really struggling in this absence of Time. Was it tomorrow?  Had we been here for an entire day?  Was it yesterday?  Oh my god, what in the fuck time is it?  And now I was sweating.  Like, really sweating. I took my jacket off and I could feel warm air all around me and I almost felt feverish.

In the moment that I was convinced I had eaten some kind of LSD with breakfast someone remarked that the air conditioning was definitely off but that it seemed the heat had turned on in its place.   Ahh. I was not alone in this imaginary hot flash.

Up on our feet.  Tree pose.  Dancer’s pose.  Half Moon.  Warrior III. We were almost done. And down on the floor.  Savasana, corpse pose, reflect on your intention for the class.  I made it.

We were seated and smiling.  Namaste.

I waited until our teacher had turned the lights on.  People were talking.  I opened my mouth and without any control of the words spilling out, I spoke. “So, the clock is gone.  That was kind of crazy.  It was like I was eating acid and I was all “Oh man, whoknowswhattimeitis, Ifeelsofree.” and five seconds later I was freaking out because “Holy moly, isittodayortomorroworyesterday!? Add in the whole Iamfreezing, no, waitnowIamsweating factor and wow.  That was some yoga class.”  It is common that following these bouts of verbal vomit there is a strange silence.

My teacher smiled.  “Yeah.  We are going to need a new clock.”

~

My desperate attempt to take a few days off paid off.  The Merge Records 25K was a smashing success, finished strong, had fun and I am not crippled! Took a short run this morning and I feel super (thanks for asking!)

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Unsolicited Parenting Advice #1

I’m not a quiet girl.  If you’ve met me in person I will give you a minute to wipe that “no shit” look off of your face.

I have a new parenting technique and it doesn’t feel right to keep it to myself.

One of the hardest things about being home with the kids full-time is the noise.  It is constant.  It is relentless.  There is a never-ending hum of sound. I think that is how parents end up being yellers.  We just have to compete to get heard.

I really don’t want to be a yeller. But I have a two year old.

Solution:  Quiet Riot. Specifically “Cum on Feel the Noize.

Scenario:  I am cutting chicken.  Shit always hits the fan when I have raw chicken on my hands. I have said “Lucy please stop banging that lid on the oven door” several times at a reasonable volume level.   She has interpreted this to me “Start yelling along with the slamming.”

Here is where I employ my new technique.  Instead of screaming “For the love of all that is holy, STOP with the banging for one blessed second!  I can not pick you up so do not start crying like I have ruined your life, I have chicken on my hands, RAW CHICKEN.  Jeeezus, stop crying.  I didn’t do anything, I just asked you to stop with the banging, Go.  Bang.  Bang all the lids.  Do whatever you want.  Nobody listens to me!!!” n0t that I have ever had this sort of situation go down. I, personally, never, ever lose my cool.

Instead, at the moment that I feel the crazy start to make its way up my throat and tickle my yelling muscles I open my mouth and I shriek “CUM ON FEEL THE NOIZE!” and I smile.  You have to smile while you do it or it is just like screaming at your kid. Remember, you are singing. You are FunTime Mom.  You are the mom that loves it when your kid bangs lids on the oven door.

“Girls, Rock the boys!  We’ll get wild, wild wild!! Wild, wild wild!!”  Take a minute. Catch your breath. If you’re doing it right your kid has stopped dead in their tracks.  They are staring at you like they have no idea what is going to happen next.

So, you think I’ve got an evil mind… that is the next line.  That isn’t a question.

That’s it.  This is my new Toddler Parenting Technique.  Go ahead and yell.  But yell a song, shake your hips and smile, smile, smile and you can pretend you are dancing, singing Fun Mom.  It works. It is the latest and greatest in my Fake It Til You Make It life plan.

Try it.  I suggest 80s hair metal, but I suppose any tune will do. Twister Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” is a hit in our house. Adam Ant’s “Goody Two Shoes” will work. But you have to start right in with “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?” and you have to really put your hips into it.

Come back and tell me your favorite song to scream, I mean, sing at your kids.

This kid is nuts.

This kid is nuts.

Bikini Body?

Ordering a bathing suit online is a ridiculous idea.  But when the company that makes the running shorts that make me feel hot, not just athletic, had a sale – I took the bait.

It is the time of the year that I have the Great Bikini Debate.  Last summer I tried to embrace the stretch marks. I gave it a solid effort.  I even tried to tan those mofos.  If I am 100% honest – the red bikini took a backseat to the trusty one piece the great majority of the time. And now here I am again, another year older, another year closer to the Year I Should Really Stop Wearing A Two Piece.  (I am not sure when that is, exactly, but I am certain it exists.)

Standing in my bathroom in the new two piece I could acknowledge that this summer’s bikini body is slightly more toned than last year’s.  I have run my ass off this year and it is starting to show.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  Bend over.  Sit down.  Eh.  It is what it is but it is unlikely that it is gonna get better than it is right now, right? The fit is ok.  But the color?

Brown. The brown bikini was the only sale suit in my size.  I just don’t know about brown.

I called to Emily.  “Come here.  What do you think?”

She just stood there with her hand on her tiny little hip.   “Hmmm.  That’s a tricky question. I’m trying to decide what you want me to say.” Damn kid.

“The truth,” I answer.

“Well, you have really big boobs and that top is really big like a lot of fabric but weirdly it makes your boobs look not as noticeable. And I think it’s ok that your stomach is like, well, you know like that because you had two babies and you’re a great mom and you look pretty.” She paused to take a breath.  “Do you like it?”

I love her. I do.  I should have been more clear, I suppose.  “Do you like this color brown?” Sigh.

Back tattoo teapot

If the bikini makes its presence known this summer than the excitement will be two-fold.  My stomach and the stretch marks there really get all the press.  But it is high time that the wreckage on my hips and lower back get a little face time.  The 2014 new ink highlights them nicely.  Last summer’s motto seemed to be “if you can’t tone it, tan it.” This summer it is looking like I am embracing the “if you can’t tone it, tattoo it” philosophy.  Someday perhaps I will get to that level of peace where I don’t even have this conversation with myself. Maybe next spring when I am trying on bathing suits for my 39th summer I will only ask myself the question that my sweet Emily June asked me –  “Do I like it?” Maybe.  Someday.

The Power of the Mind

mind-over-matter

I believe in the power of a strong mind. Couple a strong mind with tremendous focus and anything is possible.

I put the power of my mom mind to a test this past weekend.

I waited this long to write about it because I was afraid of jinxing myself.

Guys, I willed away a stomach bug. I did.  My sweet eight year old daughter came to me with tears in her eyes and said “I threw up.”  I pretended I did not hear her.  She repeated herself.  “Mom, I threw up.  Like nine times.”

I translated this from melodramatic kid speak to normal english in my mind.  Maybe she just vurped.  Maybe twice.  (Vomit burps, tell me I didn’t really need to explain that.  Vurps, you guys know what those are, right?)

She ran past me into the bathroom.  Her little self was hunched over the toilet.

That wasn’t a vurp.

She stood up and turned to look at me, tears in her eyes again.  I mustered every bit of strength I had and I looked deep in to her big, blue eyes.  I looked past the sweet face of the child I adore.  I’m not sure where stomach bugs reside (in the soul? In the gut?) but I looked there and I said “You can not be sick right now.  Do you understand me?  You can not be sick.  Right now we have lice.”

I was knee deep in laundry when she informed she had thrown up. I had spent more than two hours “nit picking” with the magical metal comb and having my own head picked.  I would spend the next 34 hours doing laundry.

I wasn’t fucking kidding.

There would be no stomach bug.

I was waging a war against lice.  I didn’t have the manpower to take on a stomach bug. And to be quite honest, there was no way I was spreading towels on beds right now.  We had an all out ban on fabric in our home at the moment.  You get one towel, one pillow and one blanket.  It goes in the downstairs bathroom in the morning and you put all of your dirty clothes directly in the washing machine.  I had no space in my washing machine or my head for puke towels.

And it worked.  It worked.  I was rewarded for this feat of strength with a blizzard and a headcold but I still feel like a winner.  At some point this week in between the Lice Laundry and the Snowpocalypse I gave my dryer a little break.  I have slugged enough NyQuil to need a trip to rehab but I still feel like I am coming out on top. Because my head doesn’t itch.  And nobody has thrown up.

Mind over matter, people.  You can do anything.  Anything.

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When I am not doing laundry I like to let my kids out of the car and then lock the doors. They fake cried until I broke down and got out of the car. But for a few blissful moments I was all alone.

Four

In February of 2010 Emily was little.  She was unabashed.  She danced in the driveway and she didn’t take long to get dressed.  She had bangs.  She liked zip-up hoodies and sunglasses and the more accessories, the better.  The Universe was all Emily’s.  She wasn’t selfish but the only life she had ever known was one that was all about her.  Today she went to a book fair at school and came home with several books for Lucy. “Because just because she is too little for school doesn’t mean she doesn’t get books, right?” 

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I don’t know exactly why I went digging through old pictures. Emily said something hilarious and followed it up with “Don’t put that on the Internet.” And I tried to remember when she became self aware.  Was it last year?  The year before? The year before that?  She has changed more in the years since Lucy was born than she did in her entire life prior.  She became something new.  She is a Big Sister now.

Maybe that is what is different.

I tell her she is still my little girl.  I tell her that she is lucky that she had me all to herself for so many years.  I tell her that I love her.  But sometimes I fear she will read through these posts someday and wonder where she is…. all this schmaltz about Lucy, what about me?

Emily June,

I am writing my story so I don’t forget.  And when you looked at me on New Year’s Eve after I took a perfectly hilarious video of you and said “Don’t put that on the Internet” it crushed me a little bit.  Not because I wanted to show the whole damn world how hilarious you are (well, maybe a little) but because I am afraid that as you get bigger and your story becomes yours to tell and I write less of it down… I will forget.  I will forget the moments, the details, perhaps, but I won’t forget the Big Stuff.  I promise.

You and I have butt heads this week. Big time.  We had the first of many screaming matches that ended with us both in tears and me saying “Listen, Em, I’m not your friend, I am your mother.  I know you are mad, and I am sorry.  If I knew a way to be your mother without making you mad I’d do it.  I am making this up as I go along, kid, and I don’t know much but I know I am supposed to be your mom first.  I can be your friend in between the cracks, but my first job is to be your mom.”  And you hugged me and you cried and you told me that it is so confusing.  You told me that you do respect me and you’re sorry that you get so mouthy but sometimes it just feels like you are with your friend when we are together.

I held you tight and I cried a little louder.  Because when you said I feel like your friend I felt like I was failing you as your mother.  But succeeding as a person.

I don’t know what I am doing exactly, Em.  You might as well know that. It is easy to teach Lucy the colors and the alphabet song. I have no idea how to teach you when it is hilarious to mock me openly and when it is disrespectful to even sort of roll your eyes.  It is confusing.  You’re right.   But I am doing the best I can.  And so far it has been good enough.

When you read all this some day and you wonder why I spilled my guts (and maybe a little of yours no matter how hard I try to protect your privacy) I hope you just ask me.  Maybe I will be able to give you an answer by then.  Because today?  Today I can’t explain why.  Writing it down makes things make more sense.  And sharing it makes it all less lonely.  Maybe you will understand that.  Weird that in this time of my life when I am never, ever, ever alone – well, it is the loneliest damn time.

I am watching you play with your sister right now.  You just looked up at me and said “Are you crying because of those old pictures? Don’t cry, Mom. I’m still little!” And you shook your tiny little butt and you smiled.

Yes.  You are.  For today.  But you are bigger than you were yesterday and you don’t show signs of slowing down.

Mom

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What does the owl say?

Most of the time we cruise along on autopilot. Life happens all around us and we turn around from time to time and we can’t figure out how we got to where we are or remember a time when we were anywhere else.

Very rarely do we have the chance to see Life happening. But when we do – what do we do? Do we stop it from happening, draw attention to it? Take a picture?

Me? I loudly say “What did you just say?” as though I caught a kid cussing me out behind my back.

Owl tattoo

For Lucy’s first birthday I got an owl tattoo to commemorate her life thus far and so that when the dark circles under my eyes fade I won’t forget the year that I stayed awake all blessed night long for a year.  Shortly after I got her tattoo I started seeing owls everywhere. Consequently she has owl pajamas and we point out the owls we see in stores and magazines. Like any good parent of a toddler I say “What does an owl say?” and she says “Hooo hoo.”

And that’s the long version of how owls came to be called Hoo-hoos in our house.

I am not big on Baby Talk.  We use real words to talk about things.  How else do your kids learn to talk? But something about Hoo-hoos made me smile and I may very well have asked a certain someone if she wants to wear her Hoo-hoo pajamas a time or two.

Today Lucy said owl.  I don’t even know what she was talking about but I wheeled around and shouted “What did you say?” and she said it again, “Owl.”

It’s just one small thing.  But if I don’t write it down I will forget.  I won’t remember when that part of Life happened.  And before I turn around Emily will be driving a car and Lucy will be begging to wear lip gloss to school. And I won’t be able to explain how it happened.

Someone will be wearing her hoo-hoo pajamas tonight. And maybe tomorrow night.