Archive for the ‘FAVORITES’ Category

The Baby Blessing

Tuesday, July 12th, 2011


So the baby blessing took place in my mother’s faintly overgrown backyard, guests’ heads thunked by falling trumpet vine blossoms (they are as large and as heavy as some sandwiches), the mingling of shadows and vines and succulents forcing the sun to do that magical dappling-of-life number that can be so very relaxing. The blessed babe wore white frills and was draped in thin blue ribbons and other appropriate blessing bits administered by the handsome monk in a three piece suit. As the ceremony progressed, I found myself utterly moved and in each moment, as Zen as the Zen blessing itself and despite (or because of?) the 12 page prayer we all recited. A breeze sent from the ocean toyed with our hair, the blessed babe’s ribbons and our prayer pages: Lovely, I thought, glancing at my husband, worried he might not be into it—but he was chanting, too, and going-with-the-flow and this made me happy—not that he wouldn’t go-with-the-flow, he’s very open to new experiences (he is a writer, after all)—but it was nice to see him enjoying himself and not at all bothered by 12 pages of recitation. He was sitting next to our little boy—who was watching the blessed babe intently—sitting next to my niece, sitting next to the sliding glass door, through which I could easily spy the generous buffet for when it was all over. I studied the blessed babe’s parents whenever I looked up from the 12 page prayer, mommy obviously in a happy place, chanting, daddy bouncing his little cherished on his knee, my mother’s yard transformed into a pretty bit of temple in the world, a sweetspot, a Zen-O-Rama patch working its Om on us. I can’t believe I just wrote that. But I’m being true to memory, for once, and at the time I thought, again (with a growling stomach): Lovely.

Om, little guy! Om!

The post-blessing-feast also took place in the backyard, at a long table with an ample collection of trumpet vine blossoms. Attending were parents, a piano teacher, the handsome, super-stylish monk, grandparents, a famous mystery writer, a runway model, an adorable three and a half year old boy, my niece, a copywriter and his wife (she an obviously struggling writer), a screenwriter, a former equestrienne, a radio airtime ad salesman and a housewife—some titles and descriptions mentioned above belonging to all and the same person (Om!).

The famous mystery writer asked me to describe my middle grade novel. So I threw her my logline. The monk perked up right away, brows raised. “She’s only 11 years old and she has to rip the mutant’s heart out?” he asked, either astounded or impressed by the climax of my novel, I’m not sure. “Sounds interesting!” said the famous mystery writer. And we all discussed middle grade books we remembered reading as children—and we all, each one of us, remarked upon the importance of books stretching imagination and requiring thinking-readings from young audiences. I asked the famous mystery writer if the revising process ever ends. She shrugged and stabbed her tender poached salmon with her fork—more than once. “There are some books I would like to go back and revise even now,” she told me—then shrugged. “But nevermore.” Or something like that. She said something like nevermore. And the monk (was he wearing a Rolex watch—if so, it suited him—a naturally elegant man—you would like him) launched into his telling of meeting the boy destined to be the next Dalai Lama. Or he met the reincarnation of the last Dalai Lama—I mean the one before the current Dalai Lama. Or maybe all Lamas are one and the same. I’m not sure. But it was a beautiful blessing and a fascinating lunch and the first-time parents and their baby are even more special in my eyes after that day in an ordinary, faintly overgrown backyard transformed. People did that. People just came right on in and made magic together in suburbia. Fascinating.



Easter, 2011 (With Sneezes)…

Monday, April 25th, 2011

It all started with the Easter Egg Tree. We painted/colored it and little accompanying eggs and added a large decorative egg and foam bunnies. We also made foam bunnies to send to relatives and T completed several Easter cards before totally burning out and threatening to throw his Thomas train (tucked into the cargo hold of his mega yellow submarine) at me. I put the crafts and cards away.

The EET (Easter Egg Tree, duh!)…

Until it was time to color eggs, but he made short work of THAT silly craft—or, rather, he turned coloring eggs into something fun, since I wouldn’t let him bash the hard boiled eggs on windows or couch arms or feed them to the dog. That’s my boy! Using your creative noggin! I was tired of egg stuffs, anyway—the dye takes so long if you are aiming for luscious shades. And, anyway, it’s not about ME at Easter. It’s about T. And J, of course, exiting dire circumstances. And the dog—shedding. And Dadda working overtime. Mama single-parenting. From 6:00a.m. to 9:00p.m.-ish. Sometimes. Without a dishwasher.

Monocle, or magnifying glass? Only T knows. And J, of course—along with The Universe.

Egg Dipper As Magnifying Glass…

The dog took matters into his own hands and, while T and I were in his room playing trains and space shuttles, got his nose up on the dining room table and made a meal of the 5 eggs we had colored. T and I returned to the living room to find egg shells and smeared yolk on the floor and a very unhappy doggy.

EEGD (Easter egg eating dog…)…

Then T’s preschool’s Spring Break hit and along with it sneezing fits that turned into a cold for T the day before Easter and, on Easter Morn, misery—6:00a.m.—when he woke for the day after waking every hour all night (poor little guy).

T and his basket in the early a.m.

His cold stopped us from driving to Santa Barbara and visiting the relatives and the beach, but luckily did not stop T from eating his chocolate bunny and jellybeans. This was hard for a mother concerned by her son being repulsed by green vegetables to watch, especially when she was helpless to add flaxseed or wheatgerm to the chocolate bunny and failed to find sugarless jellybeans—so she returned to bed and slept until after 9:00a.m. And, later, had a 2 hour nap with her son who had a 4 hour nap and when everyone woke up, the house smelled like honey wheat bread.

Looking for that jelly bean!

The day was gray, my son was sick, but the house smelled like honey wheat bread because not only had Mama’s first bread machine in her life arrived the day before, but she had survived the crowds at Walmart to procure all the right ingredients for making her first loaf, which her son loved, I mean which my son loved, and which I made, and—I have lost all perspective. There is much metaphor and simile and parallels to be had in this post, but I’m just too tired. As Ingrid told Bogey in that movie: You’ll have to think for both of us—and keep it to yourself.

My first loaf! Why does that sound weird?

After eating my bread, T felt so perky that he joined his dad outside in the yard and they made the beginnings of a vegetable garden and buried watermelon seeds in the earth. Thus, Easter reigned supreme in our house, or, rather, just enough for a little boy who doesn’t know what Easter is, except that chocolate bunnies are involved and Easter Egg Trees and a lot of bunny hoopla and consumer ads suggesting hams and garden sheds and festive outfits. Oh, little lovecup of mine—it’s all about love, love, love. That’s all you need to know. Much love, Your Chocolate Pimp And Ultimate Caregiver Of All Time.

Great garden beginnings…


Self-Portrait (With Camera)…

Monday, April 4th, 2011



Blog Break: The Editor…

Sunday, March 27th, 2011

Starting so young!



Blog Break…

Friday, March 25th, 2011

Young Scientist!

He views all!



Happy Valentine’s Day

Monday, February 14th, 2011

Despite being given a hint of grief from one of T’s preschool teachers because I failed in my two attempts at making jello hearts over the weekend (I even bought silicon molds, then when that fell apart, tried cookie cutters this morning, then when that fell apart raced to Albertson’s and bought mini-cupcakes, which disappointed this particular teacher, who asked if I’d read the expiration date on the box of jello used, who let out a big sigh of disappointment, who shocked the hell out of me by saying the cupcakes were nice, but the kids shouldn’t have that much sugar—and jello is what???—but instead of responding like a Valkyrie, I took the high road and mostly because T loves the school————–you know? I did return with a plate of the leftover, fallen-apart jello, handed it to this teacher and politely explained, “Um. Here…”)—despite anything freaky in the world, it’s a glorious Valentine’s Day, sunny and temperate, and I have the next 2 and 1/2 hours to myself while my son enjoys his V Day party at school.

Valentine’s Day breakfast bear.

Life is hearts. Have a wonderful 2011 Valentine’s Day and remember to send a little love to yourself—because you deserve it. Even if you fail at jello hearts.



Saturday, January 8th, 2011

He runs! I follow!

1. Pay closer attention to patience and being in the moment with all things concerning my son.

2. Lift my eyes up from the dishwater and enjoy myself. Lifting my eyes up from the DISHWASHER would be nice, but perhaps the happiness I feel lifting my eyes up from the dishwater and its endless supply of dishes needing attention, glancing out the windows, perhaps catching sight of the once-tame-now-feral big white bunnies digging holes in the front yard or frolicking along the sidewalk, catching sight of the many, many neighbors’ Christmas lights and air-Santas still in place, catching sight of a piece of red sky or red-tailed hawk swooping or that amazing palomino clopping along our road, its rider decked out in sombrero and spangly chaps—-perhaps these sorts of visuals will thrust me into such a happy place—happy, content, appreciating the background sounds of my son playing tug-of-war with the dog and his toy—that I will totally bliss-out and attract a silver dishwasher into my life. Dishwasher or dishwater, I resolve to focus more on these three words: All is well.

3. Not be all crabby about my February birthday (for once).

4. Continue to give to a charity each month, even if only $10, even if only $100.

5. Continue to write every day so that I can end the day knowing that I have written and stepped: Forward.

6. Remind my husband to remind me that we must remind ourselves to have our movie-night w/popcorn popped in olive oil, even if such a movie-night seems impossible that particular week.

7. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

8. Plant more beauty in the backyard because it’s important for writers and tired parents and young minds to look out the living room windows and see blooms that weren’t there the night before. Heck, turn the backyard into a forest with a non-brackish stream for splashing maniacally in and redwoods and blowzy ferns and foliage you can crawl under for a nap or pizza party—now there’s a resolution.

9. Keep thinking positively.

10. Keep optimism always close.

And it goes without saying, but here it is in writing: Read, read, read (to my book-loving 3 year old, for myself, forever).



Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

It’s a new year. What a concept! How marvelous to start afresh with resolutions carefully typed into Word, resolutions sought with open mind and heart in (extremely) rare moments of domicile privacy, or—fished for from the sweetly-art-deco-bottom of an emptied Mikasa champagne flute on NYE. Hurrah, PB! Hurrah for resolutions!

Sheer inspiration…

Please stay tuned. PB cannot write more this evening, as it is now 10:18p.m., ALREADY and one of PB’s huge resolutions, already broken, is to be settling down for sleep by 10p.m., every night, to abate the—difficulty—of her son’s 5.a.m. wakings and the dog’s I WILL BE WALKED IF ANYONE MOVES IN THAT BED AFTER THE HOUR OF 4:00 IN THE MORNING, and the cats’ SCRATCHING THE LAMPSHADE, WE’RE SCRATCHING THE LAMPSHADE AND MOVING ON TO THE HALL CARPET, WE’RE RUNNING ACROSS YOUR SLEEPING BODIES, WE’RE KNOCKING DOWN PICTURES ON THE DRESSER, WE WANT FOOD, WE WANT, WE WANT—listen, it’s just time to go to bed. Happy New Year. I heart resolutions. Mine have already come in handy this 4th day into year-bliss. Seriously! Peace. Um—resolution-on, man.

Manor owners.


Pardon My Absence…

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

Who knew the end of the year could be jam-packed with so many changes? New dog, preschool (!!!), Thanksgiving at our house—well, that happened last year, too. I guess I mean: HOLIDAY SEASON (MADNESS)!!! In addition to us all waking up at 4a.m. (at which point little boy comes and gets in bed with us and plays tag with my kidneys with his heels), 5a.m. (at which point Dadda takes the dog for a rollerblade/walk), 6a.m. (at which point the youngster among us is up until naptime). I am also editing/revising my novel. And mopping floors and finishing Christmas shopping THIS WEEK and organizing a booked calendar and hoping I’m not forgetting anything, anyone—like this blog. And—well, see picture below. ‘Tis the season! Let us Hallelujah. Until the next post.

Fa la la la la! (etc.)

Preschool Guts…

Monday, November 22nd, 2010

This post is important for me to write as it involves almost not listening to my intuition, almost letting exhaustion run my mind instead of logic (not that logic isn’t a fair weather friend of mine), thereby almost resulting in sending my son to the wrong preschool instead of: the fantastic, nurturing, sun shines out of its a**, Waldorf-got-nothin’-on-us, creativity promoting, we-help-potty-train preschool he is currently attending.

Wanting to take his toys with him to the school visit.

A month before his 3rd birthday, my son switched from sleeping through the night until 6am OR LATER, to waking up several times during the night and for good by 5a.m. I should say, he reverted to this brutal waking hour, one I have yet to (3 years later) get used to. With the addition to our family of a 2nd toddler, Tucker, my sleep once again constantly disrupted, my husband and I considered preschool for our early waking, determined to test his parents, adorable son. “I’d rather have a sane wife than—well, than not,” my husband told me as I stared dismally into my 5am coffee mug, having forgotten to put coffee into the maker’s filter, thereby brewing myself a pot of hot water. “Just need more, um, what’s that called. Sleep,” I whispered, my head crashing to the table, snores louder than the dog’s erupting.

He picked it out himself.

My son and I visited several schools. One in particular struck my fancy as it is close to us, thoroughly gated and full of teachers. This school’s Mission Statement extols enriching the lives of 3-year-olds and helping to potty train them, if necessary. Miss A was soft-spoken and when she sang songs, her students listened. However, on the 2nd day of visiting, misgivings plagued me. Miss A had 10 little ones and no helper, despite all of the teachers-teachers-everywhere. On our 2nd day of visiting, Miss A’s class arrived and wouldn’t behave or follow rules and this took a huge toll on Miss A—she was stressed out after the first hour. Understandably so! How could she watch 10 rampaging toddlers AND help some with the potty, change diapers, have them make their Mayflower boat painting, read to them, sing to them all by herself? Bless her. She did her best and I admire her. She should be paid hundreds of thousands of dollars and receive free spa visits for what she does.

The Mayflower!

But the fact that she had no assistant worried me. Furthermore, when the kids were outside in the fabulous playground, teachers seemed to manage kids vs. play with them, or make games with them. This “managing” crept deep into my subconscious and troubled me.

That evening, I once again fervently Googled preschools in the San Fernando Valley, my heart sinking when the schools I hadn’t yet visited and was most attracted to were Montessori or Waldorf based and $10,000/year. Not do-able at this time. So I started resigning myself to sending my son to Miss A’s class, because how different could preschool programs really be, anyway? Perhaps managing children was what happened to children his age, no matter WHAT a Mission Satement insisted (and the Mission Statements school to school, whether pricy or modest tuitions, were all similar). Instead of teachers dressing up like fairies or historical figures or wizards or animals and introducing students to acorn art and really wild stories and fun songs, perhaps the reality was a class like Miss A’s. And besides, Miss A was a nicer teacher than at any of the other schools I’d visited, she was closer to home and———I slept on it.

Little Big Boy!

The next morning I decided to visit one last preschool near us that I hadn’t checked yet. I was 99% resigned—yes, resigned!!!—to Miss A’s school, despite my guts twisting every time I thought about it, despite alarm bells and sirens wailing through my brain, trying to shake me up, trying to order me not to settle for anything less than the best for my son, trying to tell me I was going to have to start from scratch and check out schools farther away if I had to—advice hard for a Mama with bags under her eyes to take. Alarms did penetrate my fatigue, though, because we did visit. Here’s what happened.

The second we were shown into the secure preschool area, I was greeted by the Director, a friendly woman wearing a tye dye summer-ish dress. She gestured to the play area and encouraged my son to explore it, which wasn’t necessary, as he was already RUNNING over to join in the activities. As my son engaged with children, the Director showed me around and second by second I was swallowed by the happy vibe of the place, it’s cheerful student artwork proudly displayed on walls, it’s library, its toys and homey feel and outside, its sand and bubbles and teachers moving here and there with the packs of kids, instructing, suggesting, stimulating minds. Correcting, yes, there was correcting going on by the teachers, but it was obvious they were there for the children in a way that the previous school’s teachers were not. My son held Miss M’s hand within the first hour of our being there and accompanied her to the potty, went potty and returned wearing a pull-up beneath his jeans instead of a diaper. I almost threw myself into the Director’s arms and sobbed relief into her tye dye. I had almost made a huge mistake. No—preschools are NOT all the same and the right preschool IS out there. We had definitely found ours.

Off he goes!

So I’d like to thank my own personal nagging and alarms for not giving up on trying to alert me. I’m glad I listened. The return for listening is priceless. I must never forget to listen, never excuse not listening, never settle. Now pardon me as I try not to weep in my car, having left him at preschool for the first time. My little big boy! Mama is going home to nap while you paint, make giant bubbles, sing songs, make art with acorns, sit for storytime, enjoy snacktime, make messes and help to clean them up. I promise you, my son, I will be a better mother for extra sleep and some time alone—and you have some new things to discover and tell me all about when I pick you up in 3 hours. Sniff, bawl. I love you, baby! (cue that Carly Simon song that plays at the end of “Heartburn” with Meryl Streep).

A Sleepless Mama sniffs and tries to keep it together.


Blog Break Ad Nauseum…

Monday, November 8th, 2010

There are reasons for all the blog breaks I have posted of late, instead of writing meaningful material. Ha ha! Place your mouse over each photo to receive an explanation. Or—not…

Uncle Bob’s Birthday!

“Papa” visits and brings miniature golf platforms.

My dad’s 70th birthday!
(One sister is not featured in photo as she lives in Iowa—however, we missed her greatly, although the Pater HAD TO ACT as if overwhelmed by female offspring invading his household. Could not cooperate and just smile normally for camera…

Dinner guest!

We love him and his toddler ways!
Newest addition to our family!

Frikkin’ Time Change!!!
Yes, that’s right: Frikkin’ time change!

Yeah, and this!
Which means I’m writing/editing.

And my son—

Candy Boy Buzz!

turns 3 in 5 days. November is a busy month! And it’s Christmas at Target. Ouch.

PB Writes

Boo Boo Boo Break!

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

This year’s lil’ pirate.

More costumes!

Two years ago: lil’ pirate.

2 years ago! Gah!

Picture comparison is all the BOO I can take this year!



Boo Break 2010

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

Buzz on sugar!


Boo Break 2010

Sunday, October 31st, 2010

Buzz eats a cupcake!


Blog Break #—oh, who cares? Woof!

Saturday, October 23rd, 2010


Tucker is in the house—and yard and car and—he is everywhere. Hooray!

Little Warrior…

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

Usually when my husband and son take an outing, they return with a new something-or-other kind of toy for T. Usually this toy is, say, a neonic noodle (you know, the obnoxious foamy things you take in kiddie pools and bang other kids on the head with), or a cheap glider that falls apart after the first flight, or a Matchbox type of car to add to the collection under the couch. Yesterday, however, was different (cue sinister The Omen theme music). Yesterday, my spouse and T returned with THIS (cue crescendo of The Omen theme music):

En Guard, you bow and arrows toting swine!

Not man, not elf, but Melf (I suppose) with a completely untrusworthy expression, sword, shield with terrifying coat of arms and hatchet (not pictured). Not to mention those bows and arrows. Into the house runs my son with this THING still in its package. “Pweeze, Mama!” he shouted, meaning open it immediately, Mama, or I will have a fit. Grrrrr, I thought as I smiled at my son and said, “Sure, baby, sure.” Grrrrrrrrrr.

Upon interrogating my husband in my nicest voice (so as not to alarm our child) the second he stepped across the threshold, his arms loaded in bags of groceries, his expression harried from his time in the food aisles where our son loves to run wild, I was informed that T had picked out the Melf, not my husband. “Babe. He wanted it. Badly.” Arrrrrrgh! I thought, handing the Melf to my delighted child, who played with it for about 5 minutes, then discarded it to the train table. To my relief, bows/arrows/medieval weaponry are either too complicated or foreign or boring for him. At 2 years and 3/4, he doesn’t play with action figures yet, it’s true. Mostly he plays with the Sodor trains, his dirt trucks, his Diego submarine, his stuffed animal collection, his cars, cars, cars. Plus, HE LIKES READING BOOKS WITH HIS PARENTS. Whew. My baby! He still is one! Sort of! Tears in my eyes, I watched T bang out the back door to run and play on the lawn in the cool, glorious evening. I quickly made off with the Melf, tossing him and his dastardly tools in a dark cupboard until after T’s bedtime, when I took these photographs and numbed, then overpowered and utterly conquered the pathetic Melf with my Toshiba’s power thingy (cue Stars Wars theme music).

Surrender, Melf!

Yes, that’s right: With my Toshiba’s power thingy (cue Chariots Of Fire theme music).

Ha ha ha, Melf! I win, I win!!!

And then I put the Melf deep, deep in the Goodwill pile in the garage—but only because tossing him in the trash seemed wasteful and I wasn’t sure if he was recyclable. The Melf may live to see another day, but hopefully not with my child—at least not for a long, long time—which in toddler-time probably means next week. Arrrrrrgh! (cue Shock The Monkey by Peter Gabriel)


Several Senses Of Late…

Sunday, February 21st, 2010


Obstacle Course Part One

“When my mom was 23, she had 4 kids, a kid with kids, and the second we were 18 she was all, Okay, outta here, you’re on your own, make your own way, don’t expect help from us and if you have kids? Don’t call us or expect us to do anything about it. We’re done! And it bums me out because, you know, I want my kids to have grandparents in their lives…”

A woman in Trader Joe’s who looked to be in her 30’s was calmly saying all this into her cell phone as both of us perused the cereals/cereal bar section. I hate it when people talk on their cell phones indoors in public places. Like the time the guy in front of me in the Albertson’s check-out line shouted into his cell phone (as he handed the checker money, then scrounged his wallet and pockets for more): “You’re going to need your toothbrush and underpants. Do NOT forget underpants. When they show up at the door to cuff you, tell them you KNOW you’re allowed to bring your toothbrush and underpants. I’ll meet you there.”

Obstacle Course Part Two

But this woman’s story struck home. I was glad she was speaking to someone she could even tell it to. A few seconds later I heard her utter catchwords like, ‘therapist’ and ‘self-healing’ as T—ensconced in the shopping cart—demanded another chunk of fresh kalamata olive bread to appease his loathing of going into stores (unless the store is Old Navy with its toddler and big kid mannikins and faithfully-sitting- motionlessly-by-with-a-frozen-grin, dog mannikin—doggikin?). This woman did not shout into her phone. She wasn’t irate, bitter, snarly, or even sad. She seemed to be simply relating what was, as though she’d been working, internally, on this ‘was’ for quite some time. And I just happened to be there to hear it.


Obstacle Course Part Three

T was alone in the front yard—meaning I was watching him from the front doorway, meaning I was unseen from the pavement in front of our house, where a woman jogged by—slooooooowly. She glanced at T playing with my inherited, heavy pewter ash tray I keep on a tree stump for crude decor (where else does one put ashtrays these days?). The woman glanced at T and shook her head as though disgusted by seeing him “alone” in the yard. But instead of coming to my front door and saying, Hey! Parents! WTF!, instead of checking to see if I was dying of a heart attack on the kitchen floor, instead of checking, SHE CROSSED HERSELF and carried on jogging. She. Crossed. Herself. I walked to the pavement and watched her jog down to Lull Street and around the corner, my mouth, I suppose, slightly agape. Part of me wanted to run after her, screaming: YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT I FEED HIM, LADY! BURNT CRAP AND MCDONALD’S! And how silly. How silly is that. Come on. How utterly, cavewoman-ish silly. Although a cavewoman would have been far too busy for a reaction like mine. She would have had a baby on her back and a baby at her breast as she foraged relentlessly for food, dreaming of refrigerators, Trader Joe’s and gods that understand the importance of an occasional pedicure for a busy mother’s psyche. I’m pretty sure stuff that shouldn’t be is growing along the gaps between the left and right sides of my stove and kitchen walls. Weeds threaten the newly pruned rose bushes. A pile of hard cover books need their covers replaced from T’s book-denuding episode two months ago. I, like the cavewoman, do not have time to dwell on the insensitivity of a stranger. But it felt as if she’d thrown poo at my house and I just happened to see it…


Obstacle Course Part Four

T and I came home from Lowe’s today with lavender plants. He “helped” me put them in the earth in the front yard’s confusing jungle-mixed-with-baldness. I have this idea of planting lavender all over the ponderosa and calling our house “Lavender House”. Yes. I am currently utterly hormonal, emotional, teary-eyed over bees in the blossoms or sobbing over Tide commercials and should probably be fenced in like a poor zoo creature…So we planted the lavender and came back inside and T rushed out back to engage with the sand and water table and I took the opportunity of his absence indoors to vacuum, only there was a SMELL, an awful, choke on your bile type of smell dogging my every move and I thought, It’s T’s diaper, but of course he was outside and then it finally dawned on me that the smell was coming from ME, and I broke out in a cold sweat, looked at the sole of my left shoe—and there it was. Cat poop. I glanced over my shoulder and saw I’d tracked it all over the living room as I was vacuuming and wondering about THE SMELL and blaming my son.

Which all goes to say that I should really look to my own person before judging others, before taking the time and energy to send bad juju to a stranger or blame others for things that happent to me or hate people for talking on their cell phones in public—even if I don’t want to hear it. If you need your underpants and toothbrush because they’re coming to cuff you, it’s pretty awful. If you want grandparents in your life and you can’t have them and the only time you can talk about it—because you’re a busy mother—is in Trader Joe’s on your cell phone, okay. I do have time to forgive someone who doesn’t know me or my son for a rude transgression, but I don’t have time to blame the universe when it’s my own foot meeting cat poop.

And I always, should always have time to count my blessings.

Obstacle Course Part–oh I can’t remember…

You know? O Lavender House–you are coming along.