They grow up too fast

 This morning during the whole 'Ahh! Must leave for work NOW!' madness, Bear was hollering for his shoes and I, half-paying-attention and on my way to the bedroom from a swooping run for the dryer and the sock bucket, was pointing out 'There, there, do you see them THERE' and was stopped by B's puzzled "Those aren't mine."

 

"What? Of course they're yours. I wore them yesterday when I was tromping around."

 

(I have big feet.)

Bear grabbed out another pair. "No, mine are here. See? Different colour."

 

"Well then whose are....." there was a pause before our eyes met in horrified realization.

 

Yesterday, I wore my son's shoes. All day. Comfortably.

 

Cass is TEN, and apparently going to be tall like his grandfather.

 

I am in so much trouble. I also need bigger bricks.

 

stories everywhere

I am surrounded by stories.

Books, yes, fables and fairies and cows and vampires and zombies and puppies and star-crossed lovers and winding country lanes and immigrant grandmothers and jockeys crashing over the finish line and pat the bunny and zorro drew his sword and there were three wise men wandering and junie b, world pioneer and yellow and blue make green and woodworking for the new century and my friend flicka and under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands and a quiet old lady, whispering hush.

And it's not just the books. My things tells stories, stories that I tell to my children in vain hopes they'll remember some of what I say, stories about Nana's charm bracelets and Neenaw's letter and the cabinet that my parents dragged in from a dumpster in a Chicago alley and refinished. How Mama came over the border to be here. How Gram would sing songs in the hallways in the middle of the night when it thunder stormed so her kids wouldn't be afraid and how their Papa always had treats in his pockets. How Granddad introduced you to Wallace and Grommit. How the first night we stayed here I woke up in the middle of the night and your fathers arm was over me and I thought huh. This is how it's supposed to be and went back to sleep.

Stories.

People tell stories, too - not only with their words or by making sentences but by how they are. Often their actions speak louder than their words ever could.  And when I see a head tilt, a flashing grin, a palm slid slowly along a countertop, I make note. I see the regret, the exultations, the sorrows, the hiding away.  I see.

People are stories too.

I've been writing lately, scribbling thoughts down (pen and paper! can you believe??) about a situation, a character that won't leave me, her thoughts and background and friends and what her grandfather wore to work each day

and nothing will probably come of it. I am a master at leaving my stories gasping and half-written.

But in the meantime, I'm having fun discovering her life and what she thinks. As you would,


if you'd only stop to see some of the stories around you.

walls of stink

I realized tonight my house is full of scent. Not the usual 'mmm what's for supper' stuff, but scent.

My dishwasher - and hence, the dishes -  smell like lavender.
B bought new laundry detergent, Apple Mango (Madness?) Something, and it makes our clothes smell like bubble gum.

The kids' shampoo smells like peonies, while mine is a blend of erm... musk and chrysanthemum green, and B's is minty and cool.

The dog smells like dog, at least, although his ear meds make him smell a little fruity. And we'll be polite and not talk about his back end. It too smells like....dog.

The cats litter is almost too scented (mm! Overly-perfumed clay!), but since I have three cats, frankly the stuff could be asbestos and rhino toe-clippings, and I wouldn't care.

The downstairs reeks of Swiffer fluid and Pine Sol and oil soap and Fantastik and oven cleaner (okay, for tonight, anyway) and the bathroom smells like scrubbing bubbles and soapy steam.

Tonight, I'll go to bed on my Apple Mango Bubblegum  sheets and wish it was warm enough to sleep with a window open, and wonder....just why is it that we're all so afraid of just smelling like....ourselves?

may the circlet be unbroken

He wore his wedding ring tonight.

We had to hunt to find it - years of working as a paramedic and having it tucked away in a 'safe'place made it an odyssey to find - but now it's back on his finger and it's funny, how something so small, so inconsequential, so unimportant in day-to-day life makes me flood with love and fondness.

He's never really worn it. For special occasions, and whenever we go back over the border, sure. But Wednesday-night-to-watch-the-hockey-game? Never.

And it surprises me how good it makes me feel to see it.

Random, random, random

Damn, I love living here.

Spent the day carousing with my friend while B sawed huge trees down (yay for forestry!) and our children ran wild and free. They went swimming again (in May! Loons, all of them) and came home , happy and saturated with the joy of it all.

My friend and I are planning a Mothers Day event for the school, and so we've been sorting tea services, finding appropriate costumes, and finding props. (Hey, it can be hard to disguise a gym, especially without the benefits of crepe paper or the gentle blurring of dusk) so it'll be props. Props a'plenty. We're practically rummaging through attics, shouldering aside the elderly. "You don't mind if I borrow your precioussssssssssssssssss, do you?"

I kid, of course. But this 'do is going to be a very cool thing.

I'm watching a show on tv called ER Vets. Reality tv featuring sad, hurting animals that come in, are treated, and (mostly) bound off at the end, happy owners and doctors smiling  while they gambol off into the sunset.
My question is WHO are these owners that don't BLINK when the vet cocks her head and says 'I think he'll need an MRI then some Xrays, and maybe some exploratory surgery before we do that root canal.'

And (I swear) the people trip all over themselves to nod, nod, yes, yes, where do I sign, not at ALL huddling in the corner of the exam rooms weeping and caressing their Mastercards (which is probably where I'd be.)
Not that I don't love my pets. ('Cause I do.) But I love eating, too. And making house payments.

The school fight grinds on. grumble grumble grumble. This may be one of those things where waiting to see what happens next is hard but necessary. And I'm not a patient person.

I've been playing Words With Friends a lot lately. I may actually  gather up the nerve to challenge my grandfather to a game soon. (Maybe. Grandpa likes to play with words. And he's crafty.)

Told you this was random.....