Hitting the Fan

I totally realize that my entire last post was about chicken stock.  And I am completely aware that those of my friends who work or go to school full-time while raising a family wanted to roll their eyes, bop me over the head and/or have some other form of physical reaction because I spent an entire blog post talking about chicken stock, but what can I say? I’m writing this blog to remember all the stuff that happened when our girls were just wee ones, and some days, well, chicken stock is what happened. I’m quickly realizing that a big part of a happy life–for me, anyway–is getting rid of the “extra” stuff:  the silly worries, the swarm of toys and paperwork and spontaneous, silly purchases and the gross lump of salad leaves that I forgot about in the back of the fridge’s crisper drawer. And this paring down, this getting rid of the extras takes a lot of time.  And concentration.  I am not the best multi-tasker, as I’ve established before.  I totally know I go in fits and phases and waves and ebbs (someone told me this was a basic characteristic of  “creative mind,” which would sound like a brilliant excuse for, say,  someone not paying his bills on time: “Oh, so sorry. That payment due date didn’t just fit right with me, you know, man?”) and right now I need to somehow break down this crazy obsession with organizing into a day-by-day routine.  It’s not easy for me, but I’m trying.  I feel better when I feel like I’ve got a handle of the everyday stuff (that was a really obvious statement, wasn’t it?).  I get more accomplished.  I’m nicer to the people who live with me.

And so, some days it’s about chicken stock.

So I’m getting there. Or felt like I was getting there, anyway.  I woke up today (okay, late, and okay, I didn’t make it to the gym, but you try to get me out of bed at 5:30 a.m. and see how often it works), got myself and the kiddos together, took care of some errands, stopped by the farmer’s market (I’m trying to compare the worth of shopping locally/cost to shopping at our chain grocery store.  Yes, it’s all a part of my master plan to be awesome).  I was feeling good.  In control.

And then we walked in the door, and within a half hour, the dog had barfed all over the place, Quinn had thrown a salad plate across the room and smashed it into a thousand bits of ceramic shrapnel, through which the dog then traipsed, Saoirse had overturned a full glass of milk onto the rug, and then stood there, in shock, watching it gush all over the floor, as the oven repair man was knocking on our door to fix the brand-new range that recently began shorting out.  As I type this, he’s hunched behind our oven, muttering “Wow,” because he can’t figure out what’s going wrong.

Do you see now why chicken stock is sometimes a good subject?

Have a good weekend, my peeps. The oven guy just left (no, the stove isn’t broken, but yes, we need to rewire the house), the Mighty is still napping, and our sweet Saoirse Kate is playing quietly downstairs with her trains.  The house is quiet, so I’m going to leave you with that while I hold on these these next few moments of peace.

Because who knows what’s going to happen next.

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