Self-Awareness and the Lack

Today, I was all cocked and primed (I can't write that or say it without giggling) to write a 'shame on you' Unpopular Opinion about all these people on my Facebook newsfeed complaining about the new changes.  'Cause, Gawd, it's a free service that we've given permission to take over our lives.

It was going to go something like this:


If you make a 'close friends' list and one of your 'acquaintances' posts something uncharacteristically interesting/bats*crazy and you miss it? Take a deep breath. ..It's just Facebook.  

And just before I hit 'publish,' I realized that the bulk of my blog readers view me as an 'aquaintance' and simply haven't blocked my blog posts, yet. . . 

((face palm))

Rant on. And thank you for reading.

I was confused.

Just like the poor cat that wandered into the Coastal Carolina football coach's house:

You'll hate me tonight.

I hate to even say this, because I can guarantee you're probably not going to sleep well tonight, and it's gonna be my fault.

How old are the pillows on your bed?

Do you even remember the last time you replaced them?

Never want to replace them b/c you've finally gotten 'the one' broken in?

Bought some super expensive ones when you got married but that was. . . . 5 years ago? 6? 7? 15? And you never thought you'd need to part with their fluffy general disposition?

Yes you do want to part with them. Immediately. ..Probably.

After just two years, 80% of the weight of your pillow is...dust mite poop. 

I'm sorry. Sort of.

May I call you Rudyard?

We had a kettle; we let it leak:
Our not repairing made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week...
The bottom is out of the Universe. -Rudyard Kipling

Heed that, fellow procrastinators and mountain-makers of mole hills, alike. 

Pretty sure our Jungle friend wasn't just talkin' about tea, but his words are easier to swallow, that way.

Go forth and repair. . . or in my case, do laundry.

These are the Rubbermaid plastic carafes with airtight lids I've been yammering on about for weeks to anyone who'll listen. 

where the heart is.

This morning, it took us one entire hour to drive 4 miles to Gymboree. Granted, it was raining and it was the end of rush hour, but still.. an hour? I sat, complacently, listening to Harper play nicely in her car seat (thank goodness) and we accepted our fate. We're used to it.

I patted myself on the back for leaving 15 minutes early (in anticipation of a Pumpkin Spice latte, at whose source I just stared longingly three lanes over in gridlocked traffic).  I even felt a little lucky because there were no wrecks to make us late.

It was in that moment, in my acceptance, that I realized we have been away too long. ..That it's time to go home. 

Where I can pull out of my driveway in Fayetteville, NC and pull into Carter-Finley stadium in an hour and 10 minutes.

Where Harper will hear Hank Williams, Jr. on the radio instead of on CDs.

Where we can burn leaves in our back yard in the Fall.

Where we don't have to pay $20/person for a hayride through a pumpkin patch.

Where hearing gunshots probably means that it's hunting season.

Where we can teach our children the most efficient way to eat a scuppernong grape and a boiled peanut.

Where we can look at each other on a Saturday morning and decide to be on a beach in two hours flat.

Where the weak grow strong and the strong grow great.

Where Harper and Henry will belong, just like we did, and will know exactly where to go when they grow up and grow weary.

Conversations with Harper

Tuesday morning, 6:20 a.m.

Mid-way through decaf coffee, which only annoys me in its uselessness.

Harper is watching Dora save something from the something in three easy steps. And Dora uses a map, not GPS. ..a disproportionately large-headed girl after my own heart.

Cinnamon rolls baking. . . . reminding me that it's finally Fall. Perfect.

I think Harper might be just a little chilly, so I wrap a blanket around her, which she kicks off. "No blankie. You have it."


I accept and settle in to check the weather amid the hum of the city: The occasional siren, car doors closing, engines starting, the rumble of garbage trucks. Everyone's awake.


Wait.. garbage trucks?! OH CRAP.

Y'all know how to dance goes from here - sweaty head, pajama pants, wet flip-flop feet striking out across the grass, pretty much looking like something out of the attic of Jane Eyre..

Two hands full of cardboard from the inside trash, when I realize I can't open the back door without disrupting the stack of Jenga'd boxes I'm balancing.


I cut my eyes at the small little lump on the couch with four potentially helpful appendages. On a whim, I give it a try. After all, she surprises me every day:

Me: Harper, can you please open the door for Mommy?

Harper: Oooh, boxes. Yes!

Me: Yes, boxes. I'm taking them to the trash can. Can you help?

Harper: Oooh, trash can!

Me: (resorting to cave woman talk) Yep. The door. Open. Please?

Harper: Oh-Kaaaay! (doesn't budge.)

Me: Humph. (open door on my own, somehow, some way. hear me roar.)

Harper: Great job, Mommy! You did it! Yay! (claps)

gettin' busy.

I don't have a lot to say, but if I have to look at that toddler dressed up like Dolly Parton on my blog for one more second, I'm going to snap like a rubber band.

So.

Instead of blogging, I've been:

Scrubbing baseboards.  At some point, I'll fess up to the fact that I just got a Dyson and how it's revolutionized my life, but I want y'all to go on thinking of me as a woman of the people a while longer, instead of one of those tools with a Dyson.  I swear, I got a great deal. 

Obsessively mixing and matching bedding options for Henry on the Pottery Barn Baby website, thinking I have it all figured out then promptly yelling, "Oh hell, that looks like a girl's room!" to no one in particular. This nesting thing is a happnin'.

Getting my vampire fix with True Blood and trying to figure out why Sookie is the least bit attracted to Bill Compton. Anyone?

Eating Tums.

Drinking decaf iced tea out of a super chic plastic carafe (not directly out of, mind you, which would take the chicness down a notch or two). At some point, there'll be a picture. Not of me. Of the carafe.

Hoping that between the calcium from the Tums and tea, I don't get kidney stones, which would probably hurt worse than the round ligament pain I spend a large portion of my day whining about and hobbled with.

Taking unnecessary tests due to falsely elevated blood pressure at the doctor's office: Harper + doctor tools = epic hollering = me caring for my terrified child and the eardrums of bystanders = 150/90 (for three minutes. until they re-test it) and retesting = epic hollering.

Watching Katia inch closer and planning the requisite grocery store trip. 

Arguing with my husband about the origin of the giraffe and alpaca. Not regularly. Just tonight.

That about wraps it up.

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

toddler pageant-folk: ......

((shakes head))

I'll elaborate, but first, I need to practice with my offensive language coach.