If you are my firstborn child, do not read this. DO NOT. I warned you. I am not responsible if you ignore me.
So, I've been cleaning my house (which, at worst, is like picking up after a tornado, and at its best is like a treasure hunt.) I have also been packing up some of my mom's stuff at her house, and working in her yard. Mostly, working in her yard, because I love it more, and I have internal conversations with my mom - "Don't these stones look great here? I'm glad I moved them."
So, yesterday, I was pretty filthy. My arms are scratched, my legs are scratched, and I had an allergic rash, because I'd been crawling under trees and shrubs to which I am allergic. I had also packed up so many books that my car was full, even the middle passenger seats.
Off we went to the used bookstore, to sell some of Mom's books. My mother, like every bright and sane individual, owned more books than any other possession. There are books on shelves, in closets, in the kitchen cupboards, on the floors, on the desks and dressers, and my husband has forbidden me to hoard them. (I intend to stay married to him anyway.)
No, I did not change or shower first.
I was standing in the aisles of the bookstore browsing (I only bought 2 books, thank you) when my daughter looked at me and frowned, then squinted. "Come here."
"Do I have twigs in my hair?" I asked.
"No. It's... a dead spider. Why do you have a dead spider in your hair?" This question is unanswerable.
She picked it out and dropped it on the ground.
Both of us went on about our business. Somewhere in the Great Beyond, I'm sure that my mother giggled.
My firstborn probably got an inexplicable chill, even hundreds of miles away in the hot Phoenix air. If she asks, I'll give her the old line about, "Someone must have walked over your grave." She'll like that explanation better than the one with the spider.
So, I've been cleaning my house (which, at worst, is like picking up after a tornado, and at its best is like a treasure hunt.) I have also been packing up some of my mom's stuff at her house, and working in her yard. Mostly, working in her yard, because I love it more, and I have internal conversations with my mom - "Don't these stones look great here? I'm glad I moved them."
So, yesterday, I was pretty filthy. My arms are scratched, my legs are scratched, and I had an allergic rash, because I'd been crawling under trees and shrubs to which I am allergic. I had also packed up so many books that my car was full, even the middle passenger seats.
Off we went to the used bookstore, to sell some of Mom's books. My mother, like every bright and sane individual, owned more books than any other possession. There are books on shelves, in closets, in the kitchen cupboards, on the floors, on the desks and dressers, and my husband has forbidden me to hoard them. (I intend to stay married to him anyway.)
No, I did not change or shower first.
I was standing in the aisles of the bookstore browsing (I only bought 2 books, thank you) when my daughter looked at me and frowned, then squinted. "Come here."
"Do I have twigs in my hair?" I asked.
"No. It's... a dead spider. Why do you have a dead spider in your hair?" This question is unanswerable.
She picked it out and dropped it on the ground.
Both of us went on about our business. Somewhere in the Great Beyond, I'm sure that my mother giggled.
My firstborn probably got an inexplicable chill, even hundreds of miles away in the hot Phoenix air. If she asks, I'll give her the old line about, "Someone must have walked over your grave." She'll like that explanation better than the one with the spider.
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