In all her randomness. . .

I have some time before going to work.  I should be working on this. . .

This is my daughters closet and these are the clothes that she has outgrown. I really should have stored them away months ago.   Instead, we just keep piling them on and I say, I’ll do it tomorrow.  A lot of tomorrow’s have come and gone and I find other, more important, things to do. . . Like blogging, for example.

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I miss natural sunlight.  I really, really miss it.  I miss the way it hits my little toe heads so that their hair shines like a spotlight in a darkened room.  Speaking of toe heads. . . I don’t know the origins of the description.  I’m certain I knew at one time, but I don’t remember.  I suppose I could look it up, but I don’t care that much. 

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I like baking bread.  I especially  like baking bread on a frigidly cold Saturday morning. . .

It doesn’t matter what kind. . . any bread.  There is nothing like the aroma of baking bread growing stronger and stronger across the time span of an hour that screams HOME SWEET HOME.

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Sometimes we bribe our kids to take naps.  Sometimes it works and other times it doesn’t.  This weekend we told them they could have a camp out with Daddy if they took a nap.  Man, that one worked well!  As soon as we put them down we didn’t hear a word.  They got their reward. . .

“Unfortunately” I wasn’t able to join the fun. . . since I just had surgery and all.  I was quite devastated that I couldn’t sleep on the hard living room floor with two chattering kids who had no intentions of getting a good nights sleep. . . Instead, I had to sleep in my quiet room on my comfortable bed.  Maybe next time. . .

Maybe not. . .
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I got to see my Dad on Sunday.  I had important materials to deliver. . .

We met for lunch. . . just the two of us. 

My dad lives two hours away.  Too far, if you ask me.  Time with my Dad is always good.  It’s always too short.  At 32, I still have a lump in my throat when I say good-bye.  I’m sure I always will.  We sat for hours and talked.  Or, I talked and he listened.  He’s the best listener.  I talked about work. About the kids.  About life.  And then I cried.  Tears for my Mom.  Tears for the waiting.  Tears for the trials of this year.  We laughed, too.  Laughter is good.  My Dad is funny. 

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I can’t help it.  Leg Warmers, leggings, tights. . . I can’t stop myself. . .