Cherish

I'm very blaaaah lately. I have various explanations for this floating around in my head, up to and including the impending arrival of the menses. Which is to say, each time I entertain thoughts of writing off everyone of my friends because they're such a disappointment to me and what is WRONG with me anyway, I am mollified by the thought that things will be better next week. Won't they?

It's difficult for me to be a good mom when I feel like this. Actually, truth be told, it's difficult for me to be a good mom anytime, but even as I write this, I recognize the sentence for what it is. I swear, on any given day I'm about 2 irrational thoughts away from being completely incapable ever leaving my house again. (Please refer to paragraph #1 for an explanation of the origin of my morosity.)

And the hell of it is, I've nothing to complain about. No great source of anxiety, stress, unhappiness. Kids are good, husband is fine, house is clean, yard looks great. There's money in the bank, and Shell and I are headed out of town on Friday afternoon, ALONE, to spend the weekend with friends and enjoy the activities of Watercross. Life is good.

Lydia has been invited to stay at Grandma Dude's house for a week in August. She's going to vacation bible school @ Dude's church, and they may even be a day of horseback riding at Dude's friend Janine's house. I guess packing long pants for the past 6 weeks when we go to the lake in the hopes that she'll get to ride a horse is finally going to pay off for her.

Genevieve talks too much. Seriously. She's got a vocabulary of about 15,000 words, but she picks 2 or 3 questions each day and asks them over and over and over.....And then when you answer her, her response is "What?" We were riding home from the lake on Sunday night, and she happened to catch sight of the moon.

"Wassss sat, mama?"

"The moon."

"What?"

And then....

"Way seeee go-eeen, mama?"

"He's going to Genevieve's house."

"What?"

And on and on and over and over from Monticello aaaaallllllllll the way to our very own driveway.

At one point during this exchange, however, Lydia got her sister all set up with a piece of paper and some crayons, and the two of them sat back there, chattering back and forth in quiet little voices, and I smiled a little and thought to myself, "cherish this moment, they're so rare." We must be doing something right.