The doorbell rang. A neighborhood mom asked if her boys were here and I had no idea. But they weren’t. Upstairs was just one extra boy with my youngest son. My other sons are playing football in the street with a gang of other boys. My daughter is upstairs watching the two play Nintendo.
My husband just called to let me know he’s on his way home. We’re going to have dinner tonight at someone’s house, so we farmed out our kids so we’ll be childfree for that event. I’m just excited that I don’t have to cook. I hope I don’t have a coughing fit . . . I’m at that lovely stage of this cold. Fun.
What I’d truly like to know is why small children who go to bed late do not sleep in? Why do they wake up even earlier than they normally do? This makes no sense to me. When I am queen, I will put a stop to this nonsense immediately.
Piles are threatening to overtake my desk. Here is what I see:
1) A novel that arrived by mail. A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin. It came highly recommended and I’m looking forward to reading it, but first, I’m reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene.
2) A Chicken Soup book. I’m writing a piece to submit to one of those books and brought it down for inspiration.
3) An empty Super Big Gulp cup from 7-11. Diet Coke. Mmmm.
4) An empty tissue box, further proof of the severity of my cold. A full tissue box. More proof.
5) A thesaurus. I’ve been writing lately.
6) An old journal, a printed out email, notes, a magazine, a Bible . . . all piled up in one mass.
7) A second pile of notebook paper, coloring sheets, and a spiral-bound notebook.
What do I hear?
The laundry circling in the dryer. The hum of the refrigerator. The murmur of distant children’s voices. And now, a blood-curdling scream from the four-year old.
What do I smell?
Nothing. Remember that cold?
That completes this Saturday’s game of I-have-nothing-to-say-that-I-can-say-in-public. Tune in tomorrow–or the next day–for more nothing. Or something.