By popular demand . . . . okay, two of you asked. Here is my son, standing in front of my red-striped wall.

And yes, I handpainted all those stripes. And now, four years later, I’m getting a little tired of them and I may repaint, but I can’t figure out what would replace the joy and whimsy of red stripes. So, they stay for now.

Just when you get really good at something, you don’t have to do it anymore. For instance, I am an efficient diaper-changer. When the current daycare babies are no longer in my care, my diaper changing days will be pretty much over. All that practice and boom! No more need for my skills.

Years ago, I was very good at wallowing in my grief over infertility. I filled pages of journals with morose “why me?” sorts of writings. I could turn any situation into a cryfest–a dinner with friends and a pregnant teen turns up? My face would fall and I’d cry all the way home. I’m good at grief and feeling sorry for myself. Practiced and nurtured, one might say.

In high school, I excelled in all my studies, but math came especially easy to me. I never took another math course again after I graduated. My math skills are not just rusty–they’re like a stripped and stolen car, abandoned and now overgrown with blackberry brambles in a ditch somewhere. I remember algebra faintly, like a dream you can’t quite invoke when you wake up.

So, what are you good at that you never do anymore?

(Though, life is cyclical and I am not stymied by the math my boys are learning. And being a Grief Expert helps me empathize with people as they cope with loss–and I’m sure I’ll grieve more as my time on earth grows shorter. As for diaper changing? Someday there will be grandchildren. At least one can hope that I’m changing grandbabies and not my mother.)

Would someone–anyone–please explain to me why the hours from 9:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. go by so S-L-O-W-L-Y and the hours from 9:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. speed by in a flash?

Also, why am I the only person who notices trash on the floor?

Did someone elect me Queen of all Flushing? Because I seem to the only one managing the toilet handles in this house. And why do my kids put the toilet paper on upside down? Haven’t they noticed how it’s always been done?

And one more thing. Did Hillary really stop reading my blog or did she just stop commenting? I think of her now, whenever I iron my husband’s pants. (I’d insert a link here, but my head hurts, it’s almost 11 p.m. and I will be up and ready to walk in six and a half hours. But good news: Today, I didn’t throw anything!)