go be patient somewhere else

An unduly distressful completely unproductive lazy morning leading up to hours at Kinkos and the Post Office, lines, toddlers, tiny wars over stickers, spinach feta turnovers disentigrated over corporate rugs. Moving on to the hardware store, a parking ticket, a dead battery, running out of baby wipes, a trashed house, two weekends worth of business/pleasure/road trips and home neglect on the horizon. I get home and burn a bowl of pasta while splitting wood outside. I give my girls leftovers and "cookies" [read: no fat fig newmans] and exhaustedly put them to bed after Becca and I fly them all over the downstairs. They're hyper so Lyli gets up 3 times before sleep. I overload, therefore I energize. I store up energy, only to let it all flood out. Sometimes my myriad projects pile up to overflowing... I feel an accck! worthy of Bill the Cat, or Cathy.

Musing on the oddities emanating from my own mouth these days:

"kitty doesn't go in the oven"

"go be patient somewhere else"

"you can have more food the next time you eat sweety"

"run with scissors after you clean your room"

"did you just say 'coochie time time'?"

"please abstain from hugging papa's leg until you have successfully removed all the applesauce from your person." [yeah, I really talk to my kids this way]

[insert bizarre parental trick of the tongue-mind here]

Some friends appear when providence calls upon them to perform, sometimes these angels are devils temporarily gifted wings and a mission, sometimes these momentary angels take the form of total strangers, new lovers, a man from out of town, a new customer, a fresh face at the drive-through bank window.

Their presence reminds us that our actions and emotions are worthwhile and admirable. Their touch reassures us that we are human, manifold, sexual, real.
Their wings beating against the windowpane makes us dream in staggered instances, little polaroids of yesterdays and tomorrows, dream-smells more real than their very impetus.

I sweat beside my woodstove, currently cooking at slightly over 700 degrees farenheit, my visions of the future bleeding out my awkward grins that should be tears as I sit alone in a house I call a home.