Hey. It’s the Tuesday after what has probably been a quiet Memorial Day weekend for many of us (if you, though, are reading this not from your living room couch but from a crowded beach, please know a] I’m mad at you because SOCIAL DISTANCING, and b] I’m jealous of you because BEACH). I noticed this weekend that I managed to mess up Cian’s buzz cut last week (shocked, are you?): there’s a strip of hair above the nape of his neck that’s noticeably longer than any of the hair above it. Which means that as it grows he’s going to get a mullet. Which means that I am never, ever, ever touching the hair on that boy’s head with clippers ever again. He’ll just have to learn how to braid. I made Mom’s deviled eggs again yesterday. They tasted more like how she used to make them, and that made me happy. (My sister-in-law made key lime pie. That, too = happy.) I’m reading Emma Straub’s All Adults Here. I love her books, and…
Well, that Mother’s Day kind of sucked, didn’t it? My sweet family tried so hard this year. They made me stay in bed an hour and a half after I’d already been awake so they could bring me breakfast. The kids made “fancy juice.” David prepared stuffed French toast and bacon cooked outside on the grill (remember that time I burnt out the microwave when I set the stove on fire? We still haven’t decided on a hood range to replace it because compromise is hard when the other person doesn’t go along with you). There were handmade cards and big mugs of coffee. The kids bought me an incredible t-shirt, and if you’ve seen The Mandalorian, you know what I mean by that. And then I cried making some deviled eggs. Let me back up. We had plans to take an early dinner over to my mom’s. We were keeping it simple: hot dogs, salad, corn on the cob. I made mini cheesecakes, and we figured the kids could play outside, or we could watch a movie with her. It would be…
I was talking with my brother, Paul, sister-in-law Sarah, and David this week, when Sarah and I got to chatting about writing. She’s diligent, writing 500 words every morning at her computer before starting her work day, and it impresses me. (She also walks miles every day, does other exercising every day, cooks elaborate meals every day–meanwhile I sit on the couch to type this in the sweats I’ve been wearing for two days and I’m about to throw some shredded chicken and store-bought enchilada sauce in the oven and call it dinner. I know women aren’t supposed to compare themselves, but…you guys, these sweats are from Old Navy. They’re threadbare at this point. It’s all I’m saying). My point is, Sarah is hustling. My life is so anti-hustle these days I can’t even rest properly. (Anyone else not able to sleep anymore? I know it’s not just me.) During our conversation the subject of this blog came up, and Paul thanked me for finally posting something last Friday that wasn’t about…
