The hay's here.
Pink boots and a bag full of "rubber band Aids."
Random cabbage picture
I'm not sure if it's the heat or what but I can sit for hours here in front of this blank screen and wait for my brain to download interesting, eloquent insight to my fingers and nothing happens. Just like my computer does on occasion: I freeze and that little spinning, hamster wheel-like Apple icon just swirls and swirls and swirls without end, like a leaf caught up in an eddy pool.
And the heat might explain why I'm so irritable and discontented lately. Why I cried as I was cleaning up the kitchen the other morning and had a deja vu that wasn't really a deja vu at all but a hazy memory of doing the exact same thing-- emptying the dishwasher, emptying the dish drainer, wiping down the stove and stepping in puddles caused by my complete slob of a dog who can't seem to keep her loolly lips closed when she walks away from her water dish with her mouth full of water-- just 12 hours before.
All day long I keep hitting these doggy land mines and cursing as my own dirty, summer bare feet leave mini, foot-shaped mud puddles all over the kitchen. Mad I tell you. Mad.
And when I get really mad. I yell; something pathetic and self pitying, like "I never signed up to be a f-ing housewife!" or "My life is so completely senseless," then, overcome with the guilt of being one of those miserable, guilt-mongering, martyrdom embracing mothers you read about in books, I cry.
And when I cry, my two-year-old comes to my side, looks up at me with way- too- blue eyes, framed by way-too-dark and thick lashes and says, "You kyin, Mum?" while she pats my calf with her fat little hand.
"Yes, Isla," I say. "I'm crying like a baby, because I am a baby. Your mom's a baby, Isla."
"Oh dear," she says. "Don't ky baby."
I've written about this before, but the shame of being consoled by a child is like no other. It just seems wrong.
So I pick her up and tell her we're going outside to look for worms in the garden. The minute we get out there, the heat envelopes us and I remember why we were inside. But we forge on, moving slowly through the thick, moist air and in between the rows of Swiss chard and snap peas, in search of earthworms. In search of life just under the dry, crumbly surface.
I've got some newish posts up at Momformation here, here and here.