The amount of small-scale, 99% unimportant -but that 1%?! What if it's critical?? Damn that 1%!- crap strewn throughout my house this morning threatened to overtake my ability to manage it. Everywhere I looked there were papers (aka scraps), scribbles (aka beloved secret messages), random bits of gravel (aka most treasured rock from the school playground found on the second Tuesday last September), decaying magazines (aka "vintage" Bon Apps, Gourmets and F&Ws that are filled with gems), and other household detritus. That Imelda was coming did not assuage the intense feeling of PURGE that churned through me. Gah! I worked like a dervish on speed for three hours, tossing, organizing, ordering. Oliver's room was an untold disaster, Jack's always calls out for some degree of support, T has been home finishing up vacation and I have been reminded of the very real reason I long ago nicknamed him the Grand Relocater.
When the boys returned home from gym camp, I'd managed to get dressed. By which I mean I exchanged my PJs for elastic-waist lounge pants, a bra and a shirt, combed my ponytail and applied some concealer. Jack ate like he'd been fasting for 8 weeks, and then we hosted one of Ol's pals for a playdate. T spent some obscene number of hours at Home Depot and then said he was going to the garage to trim a piece of PVC but it'd only take five minutes. Was I born yesterday? I think not. The kids and I started counting, and sometime after minute 25, T ambled up the snowy deck stairs, sheepish but successful. I popped some ramekins of coconut-Meyer lemon crème brûlée from the oven, switched my Mom Hat light to off-duty and went upstairs.
Jack built a motorized card-slinger out of Legos (amazing), T got excited and helped him improve it, and Oliver continued to wax enthusiastic about a shiny wallet I was recently given. I said we could share it and he nearly melted. Nutmeg and Percy nuzzled noses sweetly for a full twenty seconds before N tried to swipe P's legs out from under him, and T and I enjoyed one of our best pizzas in a while.
I'm tired as get-out, and sorer than that, the beautiful snow from this morning was blown from our trees by this afternoon so sadly I have no pics, and a babysitter who was to come and provide respite tomorrow (yay) no longer can (sad!). The "ooh, think of all I can do in four hours" glee was snatched from my hands all too quickly, but better today than tomorrow. It's all cool but I'm going to bed now. My oldest honey pie is officially 7 and a half tomorrow! Where does the time go?! He suggested I make a blackberry pie for his big-day breakfast, but I can already see that's not going to happen. Sorry charlie. I love you but.
Can we talk about extreme lip and hand chap? Why does it happen so quickly? How? My lips feel like they got shredded- did I microplane them instead of the Meyer lemons today? I think I'd have noticed such an error, but perhaps not. I am tired. And my hands are cracking and they ache. I'm not in the Arctic for christ's sakes. T bled on a hot dog bun earlier. Sick! I'm covered in Carmex and lotion yet still attempting to hold my book tightly in both hands so that it does not bonk me in the face thus injuring my grated lips even more. As an aside, I am working so hard to hold this book, Hyperbole and a Half, because it is g-damn hilarious. When it's not heavy and/or sad. The author, Allie Brosh, is brilliant. I can think of little better than laughing yourself silly over a book. Well, laughing yourself silly without making your raw lips and hands hurt/bleed worse would be better...