“They say money can’t buy Happiness. But money can buy PopTarts, and that’s pretty close.”
My son is talking to me as I finish journaling, hang up some wet clothes, get ready for bed. He’s been high-energy all day from our roadtrip to a now-notorious, horrible brunch – where he ate only a small square of strawberry shortcake as he found the rest of the fare “disappointing”, to home again and a few play sessions outside with friends and next door at my mother’s, to a tokusatsu film together, and now – leaving me to write, he plays with his massive store of Legos.
He shaved his hair off the other day: now he’s just another lanky little jug-eared boy, his soft head all scruffy when he leans into me, still as physically affectionate as when he was just a little sprout. My Mother’s Day was another very sweet one, spent with my family in idleness. Besides the wretched first meal, my husband cooked a wonderful lunch and dinner. The gifts I made and purchased my mom, seemed well-received. My podcast heroes played my call-in and discussed it. My favorite kitty settled in on my lap and permitted me to pet him.
Now, in my studio: a fine flannel for a shirt. A vegetarian lasagna nestles in the fridge, for tomorrow night. Downstairs, I hear my husband return from a late-night run. My mind is going over things I don’t share publicly, thoughts about my children and school and our plans for the future. My mind will soon take a rest and tomorrow will be