We have eleven hens, two bunnies, two goats, two cats, and a fish named Diego.
Peas have sprouted in a barrel.
Apples are growing in our trees.
Mice are nesting in our compost.
And a giant blue, red, and yellow robot parade float is standing in the rain.
Max is baking lasagna and making raviolis.
Alex is getting ready for class.
William bought walnut wood for a new project.
Geoff has six more weeks of crunch mode.
Maria loves garden club, Adventure Time, Blue Math group, crafting, and the prospect of sixth grade camp.
Natalie is the Chickenblogger, and she's meeting the septic man today.
Our blue house needs a roof, and probably a ceiling where the roof leaks.
Our blue house is messy. Not condemnable... uh… well, maybe a little bit decry-able, but mostly merely teetering. I was thinking of printing out this article, which describes, and pardons, the messy home archetype... I am tempted to hand the copy to new visitors, at the door. They could sign a sort of non-disclosure-non-disdain agreement, and we could agree that our messes are of the harmless-creative-arty-absentminded variety. (This is perhaps an unfortunate loop I am trapping myself in… admitting my domestic skills are subpar, apologizing for my lack of interest in investing time in reversing the tide, then glorifying the mess as some sort of jolly reflection of greater good, when the driving truth is that I think filing paper work and putting socks in drawers is so numbingly dull, that I cannot find any means of compelling myself to care, every day, all the time, and so instead I blog, and volunteer to make soup for an interdenominational shelter, pull weeds in other people's gardens, and pretend that sewing tea towels is vital and worthwhile. It does not escape my notice that I am a very lucky woman, and maybe I shouldn't talk about messes. I feel embarrassed. Maybe I should be discrète… because shame and omission sound better in French. Maybe I should close the door on hobbies, parties, crafts, projects, tinkering, dabbling, collecting, at least until I can find my desk, repair the shutters, and manage all medical bills. Maybe I should figure out if this is a paragraph, and whether all of this actually belongs in parenthesis…)
This life is not static. It cannot be contained, it doesn't pause, and cannot be re-scripted. I think that I worry too much about how to do it right, and should just be thankful we get to do anything at all…