For the past two days, our town was encased in a thick blanket of fog, extending outward from the lake, that refused to dissipate or do more than ebb slightly with passing winds. I stayed inside mostly, wondering what was up with it; did we as a community do something horribly wrong and get cursed to live in the mists for some reason? Our neighbor laughed, when I saw him on his porch, and made jokes about not having made any plans to move to England, yet getting transported there anyway.
Today the fog was gone, so I ran out to do some errands. Well, apparently everybody else had also been waiting, and with two days having been stolen from their Christmas prep time, they were all in a huge hurry. There were traffic jams everywhere; I waited for fifteen minutes just to get out of one smallish parking lot and onto the road. People were driving like maniacs, too, creating their own lanes and cutting people off whenever they felt impeded. Thank God I only had a few things to do; being on the road today was taking my life into my own hands.
At least I managed to get maybe a third of my cards mailed today; I wrote out envelopes while Gabe napped, and when he woke, I wrapped things up for the day on that end. Hopefully, I can get the rest out tomorrow. I want to be able to get one last thing for Hailey, wrap that and her books, and get the whole package in the mail, and I really hope to get that done early in the day before the post office is overrun with snaky lines of frustrated people. Tis the season, after all.
Sam's been having fun with creating his own reality lately. When you ask him what he did in school today, the odds are fifty-fifty whether you'll hear the truth or some "improved" version of it. There doesn't seem to be any connection between his stories and whether he has anything he wants to hide; he just likes to invent scenarios.
We talked to my dad on the phone yesterday, and he asked Sam how school was going. "Great!" said Sam. "Today we went on a field trip to a monster truck park, and we got to ride on a truck that was big enough for my whole class!" When he got off the phone, I asked him why I hadn't seen a permission slip for the trip (teasing a bit, knowing full well he hadn't gone on any trip). "We didn't need slips." Oh, really? No slips for the bus ride? "Um...we didn't ride on the bus. Mrs. D. drove us." You all fit in one car? "It was a limousine." And on and on, until I finally let him off the hook and told him that I knew he hadn't really gone. He wasn't happy with me, and he grumbled, "Why did you have to be listening?"
He told his Sunday School class that we lived on a boat, and that he needed prayers to do well in an upcoming swimming contest. He told Eric that they had a school assembly in which his class sang a song, and the whole school clapped and cheered and went dancing through the halls. He told me that a girl in his class asked him to poke her in the butt, and he got in trouble for it. (Oh, wait; that one was real...) I admire his creativity, but I wonder how much I ought to be encouraging a more truthful reporting of the day. So far, all I've really had to insist on is that when he gets caught in his fabrications, he needs to admit that it's just a really good story; otherwise, he starts getting angry and insisting that it's the truth. I've tried suggesting that he write down his stories and draw pictures to go with them, but he's not buying it.
Oh, well; would I have preferred an uncreative mind? I should think the answer to that would be obvious. That's my son, the future Oscar-winning screenwriter...
I'm running out of things to talk about ("Mailed more cards today..." "Ooh, busy, busy!" "So stressed; won't be ready for Christmas..."), and none of the generic prompts are doing it for me. Got a question? Fire away. I might even entertain photo or audio requests, though I reserve the right to not take pictures of things that might incriminate me or cause Martha Stewart to come pistol-whip me.
one year ago:
The funeral home sent somebody over to the house with all the flowers, filling the living room to the edges, which was overwhelming for Ronnie. They also came with a bill that shouldn't have existed.
two years ago:
Boy, I can't wait to be a grandma, so I can lose my mind every Christmas and apparently go cash out an IRA to go completely nuts on my grandkids.
three years ago:
Seriously, when does the ability to choose gifts for yourself just up and vanish?
four years ago:
The ick brings with it strange cravings that can be dangerous to ignore.
five years ago:
He treats me very well - not because I always deserve it, but because he loves me.
six years ago:
Is it even a tune? Only to devotees of Anton Webern (of which I actually am one, so nobody get their drawers in a knot).
seven years ago:
Eric's company Christmas party was such a hoot last year that I swore he'd have to drag me there by my eyelids next time.
In the ears:|
On the Bookshelf:
Photos, old and new,