We are here and life is OK. Not great, but OK. It's over 100 degrees every day. Supposed to be 111 this weekend. I am 50, boos are 2, Rocket Boy is some never-to-be-mentioned age. Whiskers is skinny, Pie Bear is fat, I am fat. TOO much fun food in northern California. Not to mention all the Weight Watchers ice cream bars in the freezer here.
I did a lot of "acquiring" while I was up north (where they have these things called STORES) -- lots of new clothes for me (bought with birthday money), delightful new shoes that I have been wearing every day since I got back, clothes for the boos, a huge stack of books (mostly birthday presents), an Ikea table and stools for the boos (big hit), and some other miscellany. I have really had to reexamine my attitude toward STUFF since moving to Ridgecrest. Before, I would have said that STUFF wasn't so important to me, I wasn't a shopaholic, I could go for long periods without using my credit card. Turns out that's a total lie. I live for STUFF and am miserable out here where I can't get any.
They even have better garage sales up there. No, I did not go to any garage sales when we were up there, but I WAS TEMPTED.
I feel quite transformed by my new clothes, and especially by my new shoes. They make my feet feel good. More importantly, they are GREEN. Here they are, posing on the new Ikea table:
But the family members who are REALLY transformed by their trip up north are Baby A and Baby B. Quite often when I visit my family I also get my hair cut. Not this time, and it's too bad, because I could have used a trim. Instead, boo bears got their hair cut and it has made quite a difference.
BEFORE, they were a slovenly pair:
AFTER, they are refugees from the 1950s:
Who are these little short-haired boys? Baby B in particular seems to be a different creature altogether. Rocket Boy isn't sure he likes them like this, but I kind of do. These two little men seem like people who might say please and thank you, pick up their toys, drink all their milk, and pet the cat gently instead of dragging her by the tail down the hallway.
Might do all that, but actually don't. I need to work on "please." I do say "thank you" to them quite often, at appropriate times, and I could imagine them saying it back to me someday. But I only say "please" at desperate times, as in, "PLEASE don't throw applesauce in my hair, PLEASE put down that knife, PLEASE stop driving Mama out of her mind!" I need to show them that it is a word that can be spoken by a person who is not crying.
When we were up north, life was a lot easier. We stayed in this wonderful apartment, full of books and toys and pictures. We saw one or both aunts every day. We played on soft grass, it wasn't hot, I didn't have to cook dinner. In other words, it was heaven. And even though I was sick most of the time, it was easier for me to handle the boo bears. Even at the Peninsula Creamery the day before we left, when Baby B was dancing in the booth, having his own little pre-lunch party, and accidentally whacked me across the face, really hard (and it really hurt), all I said was "That's one!"
Every time I look at them with their dignified little haircuts I think maybe we can all keep treating each other with a little more care. I am trying.
Even though it's going to be 111 on Friday.
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