Sometimes, like today, when we have no major plans and I know that I'm probably not going out (other than the driving lesson I gave Anne-with-an-e today), I deliberately put on a shirt that already has a stain on it. Because I just know that I'm going to spill something. Yup. Just added a new tomato sauce stain to this pink shirt. Atticus says he finds my klutziness endearing but I think he just says that because he's, you know, my spouse of twenty-five years.
Yesterday at the park when I watched my 20-month old godson cry pitifully about a tumble he'd taken, and I thought back to how seven-year-old Ramona had earlier needed a kiss on a not-even-visible-scrape in order to wipe away a frown, I thought about how roughly 80% of growing up is just learning how to be quiet and stop whining. Most of us are still working on that.
Last week I had a minor psychotic episode during which I thought for certain that we had a bat living somewhere in our back patio. We probably do, though I'm no longer psychotic about it. Friends like Theresa assure me that bats are a blessing, and friends like Jennifer are jealous because surely our bat is keeping mosquitos at bay while friends like Lissa think it's cool, unschooly science. All I really cared about was making sure that we didn't have a bat colony living in our attic, a la Dave Barry (and thanks to Jenn again for that reference, which made me laugh in the midst of freaking out.) Atticus assuaged my fears with fearless attic investigation.
The joys of home ownership are without number.