I like water.
I never have to squint when it's raining.
I like food. Food comes from plants. Plants need water.
It makes different sounds on my roof, windows, the driveway and trees. All of the sounds make me happy.
It cleans the earth a little.
I love when the sky is filled with big, dark, grey clouds.
There might be thunder and lightning, and I get to make up answers about where they come from when my kids ask. They believe whatever I say.
There might be a rainbow. Marley screams like a little girl when there's a rainbow. Because, she's a little girl. And rainbows are awesome.
It gets cooler outside when it rains, and I like it cooler.
My hair actually gets better when it's rained on.
Puddles are extraordinarily fun. Especially driving though them at high speeds or jumping in them with my kids. Or without my kids. I'm just saying.
Rain is the closest thing to a car wash that I ever get.
I have on occasion cried in the rain, and then no one can tell. They just think I look like crap because of the rain.
The Everly Brothers (who I love) have a most excellent song about Crying in the Rain (that I love). Rain and the Everly Brothers are a nearly unbeatable combination.
One of this planet's all time best smells is the air right during and after the rain falls. I swear that smell extends life or creates brain cells or something. It's magical stuff.
It makes me feel some of my British and Scottish heritage right on my skin.
God made rain. How can you argue with that?
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Hooligans
I'm not a Mother. I may be an unwitting gang leader. I am in charge of a pack of wild beasts. They are hooligans, all.
They wake up. They destroy the kitchen, pilfering every last bit of cereal or breakfast-like food they can find.
They will smile to your face and say something cute or funny whilst they spread sand, clothing, jam and toothpaste on the furniture and carpet.
They steal. Food, make-up, debit cards... nothing is safe.
They're sneaky and underhanded, pretending to play Roblox on the computer, when I'm fairly certain they're actually hacking into my bank information hoping to purchase Duncan's online shopping cart filled with $2800 worth of Thomas toys and then resell them on ebay for a profit.
They spend an awful lot of time digging holes in the back yard and then covering their tracks with a good dousing from the hose. Who knows what I'd find back there if I started digging?
I've seen outgoing phone calls on my cell to numbers and area codes I don't recognize.
They have their own language and it's so sophisticated that it sounds like they're all speaking different dialects. But I've seen the knowing glances.
Two of the diapered kids have been caught hiding various items in their diapers. I haven't figured what their intent was with those, but I'm sure it wasn't good.
They regularly use sleep deprivation as a means of manipulation and infliction of harm.
They leave, they come back and they throw clothing and bags and books all over the front room. Just a careless mess, or the beginnings of a barricade in preparation for a rumble with the next poor sot to come to the door?
If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help. The hooligans are running wild.
They wake up. They destroy the kitchen, pilfering every last bit of cereal or breakfast-like food they can find.
They will smile to your face and say something cute or funny whilst they spread sand, clothing, jam and toothpaste on the furniture and carpet.
They steal. Food, make-up, debit cards... nothing is safe.
They're sneaky and underhanded, pretending to play Roblox on the computer, when I'm fairly certain they're actually hacking into my bank information hoping to purchase Duncan's online shopping cart filled with $2800 worth of Thomas toys and then resell them on ebay for a profit.
They spend an awful lot of time digging holes in the back yard and then covering their tracks with a good dousing from the hose. Who knows what I'd find back there if I started digging?
I've seen outgoing phone calls on my cell to numbers and area codes I don't recognize.
They have their own language and it's so sophisticated that it sounds like they're all speaking different dialects. But I've seen the knowing glances.
Two of the diapered kids have been caught hiding various items in their diapers. I haven't figured what their intent was with those, but I'm sure it wasn't good.
They regularly use sleep deprivation as a means of manipulation and infliction of harm.
They leave, they come back and they throw clothing and bags and books all over the front room. Just a careless mess, or the beginnings of a barricade in preparation for a rumble with the next poor sot to come to the door?
If you don't hear from me for a while, please send help. The hooligans are running wild.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Locks
I have inner turmoil. Confusion. Uncertainty.
Bad hair.
My hair is too long. It's wild, unruly, unkempt and pretty much a hot mess. Really it's not even a hot mess since that would imply the use of a hairdryer or some styling tools. Not happening. I'm lucky if I get it washed these days, and air drying has been the name of the game all summer long. But when my kids went to school this morning, it was only 55 degrees and I was whomped in the face with the fact that fall is coming, and soon air drying soon won't be an option.
For some reason, after I have a baby, I always want to cut my hair. I think somehow less hair means simpler hair, and I cut it and then remember that you really have to do shorter hair for it to look decent.
I no longer want to appear as though I'm channelling Medusa, or doing a trial run on my scary Halloween hairdo. And at only 5'1", it doesn't take much to be totally overtaken by my hair. So just cut some, right? Well there's part of the dilemma- I could, but for one, I'm nearly to the point where I could cut it and donate it if I went short-ish. And, with shorter hair my comes my unfathomable fear of one dreaded thing: Mom Hair.
Yes, much to my chagrin I drive a minivan, but I don't want people to know that about me by looking at my hair. I am a Mom, but high waisted tapered jeans are not mandatory, and neither is the "I stay home with small children all day, so I've given up" haircut. I don't even know what that haircut is. There are many variations, but you know one when you see one. And if I get one, I won't ever really know it. No one will tell me. They'll think it, but never tell me.
I'm not good at doing my hair, so I'm limited by that. Round brushing? Forget it. You'll be cutting brushes out of my tangled mass by the time I'm done. Plus I have the post baby new growth coming in, so for about a year or more, I will look like I've sprouted several antennae any time I try to add any sort of volume to my hair. Styling my own hair is just not an area where I have any know-how or confidence whatsoever.
I'd like to look fabulous.
My guess is I will look something like me. Minus some split ends.
Bad hair.
My hair is too long. It's wild, unruly, unkempt and pretty much a hot mess. Really it's not even a hot mess since that would imply the use of a hairdryer or some styling tools. Not happening. I'm lucky if I get it washed these days, and air drying has been the name of the game all summer long. But when my kids went to school this morning, it was only 55 degrees and I was whomped in the face with the fact that fall is coming, and soon air drying soon won't be an option.
For some reason, after I have a baby, I always want to cut my hair. I think somehow less hair means simpler hair, and I cut it and then remember that you really have to do shorter hair for it to look decent.
I no longer want to appear as though I'm channelling Medusa, or doing a trial run on my scary Halloween hairdo. And at only 5'1", it doesn't take much to be totally overtaken by my hair. So just cut some, right? Well there's part of the dilemma- I could, but for one, I'm nearly to the point where I could cut it and donate it if I went short-ish. And, with shorter hair my comes my unfathomable fear of one dreaded thing: Mom Hair.
Yes, much to my chagrin I drive a minivan, but I don't want people to know that about me by looking at my hair. I am a Mom, but high waisted tapered jeans are not mandatory, and neither is the "I stay home with small children all day, so I've given up" haircut. I don't even know what that haircut is. There are many variations, but you know one when you see one. And if I get one, I won't ever really know it. No one will tell me. They'll think it, but never tell me.
I'm not good at doing my hair, so I'm limited by that. Round brushing? Forget it. You'll be cutting brushes out of my tangled mass by the time I'm done. Plus I have the post baby new growth coming in, so for about a year or more, I will look like I've sprouted several antennae any time I try to add any sort of volume to my hair. Styling my own hair is just not an area where I have any know-how or confidence whatsoever.
I'd like to look fabulous.
My guess is I will look something like me. Minus some split ends.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Where Deep Thoughts Meet the Sleepless
It may appear I'm moving backwards, upside down or nowhere at all, but I know I'm always growing. Well not literally growing, but you know what I mean. I'm still short. I just meant that I... aw, crap. Never mind.
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