The past couple of days were nutty. Just nutty.
I don't need to tell you about the weather.
I need sunshine. I need a run or a really hilly, hard walk.
Exercise is calling my name.
But there's this white icy stuff.
I have "bruised the soft tissue on my heel."
Lucky me, I'm what they call a heel striker!
For the next few days, I am staying off my heel.
But today is the day of love.
And since I can't fix the weather or my silly heel,
I'm gonna do my best to chill out, plan a few blogs in advance
try to be more patient with my girls, the human girls, that is, and relish a few days off.
Years ago I joked with my husband that one day I'd be fifty
and we'd have two adolescents in the house.
That's a lot of hormones.
The other night while making dinner, I had a mini meltdown.
Does anyone appreciate all the things I do?
Meals and lovely flowers and hauling teenager butts
all over town!
Doctors, orthodontists, homework, permission slips, sleepovers (dear Lord, the rowdy sleepovers!)
I worked myself into a very big poor-me party.
But then it snowed.
And I spent yesterday in my pajamas.
Middle daughter was cheerful, and I stood inside and watched as she
put food in the bird feeders.
Youngest daughter appeared in my room with a plate of sugar cookies.
She had made them.
You know, used the hot oven without permission.
She snuggled in bed, and I read her parts of the new book I'm working on.
I had time to chat on the phone with not one, but THREE dear friends.
In blogger world life can sound mighty perfect. And I think there's something nice about that.
We like the pretty in our lives.
Personally, looking at elegant rooms and delicious meals
and reading about your lives takes me away from it all.
You ladies are a little like Calgon!
But I don't want to sound like my life is perfect.
It is not.
There is sadness. There is struggle. There is leftover pain from long ago.
I get in bad moods.
Sometimes I yell at my children.
Still, on this day of love, often imperfect, flawed, complicated love,
I relish the beauty of it.
I celebrate its imperfections.