We’re still toiling away on the house projects. Trying hard not to cry some days.
Like when we discovered our hardwood floors in the kitchen buckling in places due to a faucet leak we’ve been meaning to take care of.
Like over the trim colour that I chose, that I fear is to blue. But I’m not changing it, so I’m sucking it up.
Like that I spend my birthday on the couch with Ava Scarlett puking all over me. (It actually wasn’t that bad – it was nice chatting with her all day.)
But the dust. And the mess. And the disarray of our stuff. And no water in the kitchen for a week. And being crammed into what feels like a smallish hotel while everything around you is under plastic? It’s getting old. My nerves are wearing thin. I’m feeling stabby.
And when the children are never, ever more than six feet away from me, the amount of noise only rivals the amount of toys on the floor right in front of the stove.
Me: Ava Scarlett! I have asked you three times to come and clean up this mess right here… please stop whatever your doing, and come and take care of it immediately.
She: I tan’t.
She: I tan’t. I swording Ol’ver now.
Me: Pardon me? What are you doing?!
She: I swording Ol’ver.
Will you please look at the child’s eyepatch? And the tutu?! I laughed my ass off.
Arrr, matey. Thy mess shall be cleaned after you walk the plank then…
. . .
My birthday was on the 24th. Like last year (and others) I stayed up late to watch the clock roll into my special day, so I could feel it and taste it and think about it. Things are good. No losses of life, serious injury, or (despite Ava Scarlett’s recent case of the heaves) no serious illnesses. My family and friends all seem to do well. I can’t complain, Universe.
I’ve had drinks and nibbles out on the town with some foxes, and some friends, and with my lovely Martin… twice so far, and it ain’t over yet. I plan on maxing out the fun times until Christmas. Like usual.
Life is good.