*Garbage disposal quit working. Blerg.
*The two older boys have opted to NOT finish their very simple chores and have thereby incurred MORE chores. Wall washing. They will probably be working all week.
*I cannot clean AND watch the baby. I have to do either/or. Unless the kids help me. In other words, I'm always feeling like I'm drowning in something.
*I'm feeling funky. Lonely in a crowd. It's interesting how throughout most of my life I have felt I am looking in/on from the outside, and how people would tell me I am being silly, only to have it happen to me over...and over...and over...and over...and last year...and last week...and yesterday...
*I mopped the kitchen floor. For the first time all summer. Made a mental note to do it more often! It's nice!
*I got my wedding ring cleaned. Whoah! Sparkle city!
*We started family scriptures again! Huzzah!
*Chore charts are up; they are sort of being followed.
*My oldest son turns 8 years old this week. Eight!?! Baptism to follow next month. So excited for the boy --just can't believe we've come to this already; our third child getting baptized.
*Christina Perri radio on Pandora
*Swimming lessons for the kids
*My patient, amazing, talented, gorgeous, hates-the-attention-I-bring-to-him-on-this-blog husband
This is a poem I wrote this morning in my funkiness. Please don't laugh, and please don't steal (not that you'd steal if you were gonna laugh, eh?), although chances are you'll probably just cringe. It's raw.
"I Don't Know"
Who I was and who I am cross paths
In the road, like a motorist, who
Texting or talking or reaching for something
Hits a deer, and everything is metal
And massive tragedy.
I make alliances with the new system
And then it changes, like a rug --
Oriental and expensive, charged with
Static, pulled, violently from underneath
Leaving me charred.
I claim it doesn't matter, that I can
Adjust, like sails on a ship; the mainsheet
Shifting canvas with ease. Only I forget
That manpower is needed to thread
Ropes through pulleys.
I go on pretending unaffection, hiding in
Coldness, like drafts sweeping through
An old house, the heater broken and
Lying in twisted heaps next to
Rotting wooden beams.
I am tossed about and taken without
Warning, like an apple dropped into a
Vast river, flowing, crashing, out to Sea
Where birds, desperate for sustenance
Eat what they find.
Copyright August 2012