…so how I managed to find this one when I was 18 years old, is beyond me.
I was sitting in the living room this afternoon, trying to get some photos of the dogs. They’re such buds. But I had the wrong lens on, and I couldn’t get a wide enough shot. So I stood up and walked around taking pictures of everything else in the room. The one of Greg above is my favorite. He doesn’t look mid-forties to me, but then I still feel like we’re in our thirties. In my head, we stopped somewhere around 35.
My brain age-locked with my mom when I was a kid, too. At some point in my childhood, I asked her old she was. She said she was 32 years old. For the next decade and a half, she was 32. Or 32 and some random amount hastily added as a wild attempt at accuracy. A friend would ask how old she was and I’d say, “Ummm….like….32…no wait…like….34 maybe?” Mom would squint at me. My inability to nail this information down baffled her, since as any woman can tell you, entering your forties is an event you don’t exactly miss sliding by. You can slide into your thirties. Your forties, you’re sort of flipping over a few times and trying to stick the dismount. So how did I not notice it happen? I was there. I was a prominent feature at her birthday parties. And yet…..she was just always 32. Until I was.
Here’s me disturbing him while he reads:
I think it’s okay if I tell the internet that he’s reading Sense and Sensibility, which I’ve never read, and he keeps giving me updates on how the book is different than the movie version we like (the one with Emma Thompson, of course). Apparently, Lucy Steele is not the innocent she appears in the movie. I had no idea. The only Austen I’ve read is Pride and Prejudice. We talked about the social expectations of society in Austen’s time, which would have exhausted me in under an hour. I wonder what Austen would have thought of Facebook. Imagine Devonshire on Next Door.
The little rose from my Mother’s Day breakfast has pooped out. It sits in the little glass, leaning its weary head over. It’s not dead. It’s resting. (Into the compost, tomorrow.)
There were other good things, today. I noticed.
My friend’s wife, who really needed to get her cursed uterus out, finally did today. The financial burden is a real problem, so if you could spare a little, it would really help.
Somehow I managed to get an even 3000 steps on my FitBit, which is nifty keen because I’ve never had an even number before, and because it’s over my average of about 2500. I’m really happy about that. Last year at this time my average was 6000, which for me is the biggest illustration of having gone downhill in the past twelve or so months. But I’m still fighting this. And a 3k day is a day to celebrate.
While we were sitting outside tonight, we saw a hummingbird.
My sock is working! It’s time to make a heel. I’m thinking Cat Bordhi’s Sweet Tomato Heel. I’m nervous to try it, to try anything. Anything, from this point on, is new territory. I’ve never made a toe-up sock before. I don’t want it to all fall apart.
And finally, my daughter’s friends came over today, and called me Angel Mom all day. One of her friends had come out to his mom, and when I heard the news, I’d given him a big hug. Apparently the story of this hug spread. I got to hear today how I have a reputation as a loving and safe mom to both my kids and their friends, and that was, without a doubt, the best compliment I’ve gotten all year. There is a lot I can’t do, but this thing, I did right, and my heart just overflowed when I heard that. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here. To be very clear, I don’t mean that in any kind of dangerous way, I just mean, sometimes I look around and think, “I’m basically just sick all day. I can’t work, I can’t even volunteer anymore. Will my life really mean something in the end?” But when the kids were asking me for hugs and calling me Angel Mom, I finally felt like I’d really done something meaningful. It felt wonderful.