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Sunday Was Better

Steve gets up with Patrick, usually between 6 and 6:30 am. Sometimes I hear him, sometimes I do not. Yesterday Patrick must have woken up in a really good mood, since the little morning noises were muted and happy ones. There are few things in life more peaceful than half-listening to my husband and son discuss breakfast and blue cars while I doze nearby. I fell back asleep and woke up to a perfectly still house and brighter morning sunlight. I lay there and thought about how nice it was to wake up in the woods every day. Steve and Patrick had apparently gone to Home Depot and when they returned they burst into the bedroom to say good morning. Patrick climbed into bed with me and Steve handed over a stack of books, which Patrick and I read together, cheek to cheek, for almost an hour.

Eventually we tired of helicopters and cows who say Moo and got up to explore our options. Patrick loves my elaborate morning ablutions (washing my face! brushing my teeth! putting the hair back into a ponytail!) and sits on the bathtub step, enraptured. He likes it when I brush my hair upside-down and he'll close his eyes and walk through the curtain of hair, over and over again. Like his father (and come to think of it, every man I ever slept with- all 7000 of them) he dislikes it when my hair is back and vastly prefers it loose over the shoulders. Of course, he doesn't have to keep pulling it out of his mouth all the time. "Off," he said, "blue off?" pointing hopefully at the navy scrunchie. No chance.

Patrick is a vegan by taste. He consumed an entire jumbo zucchini for morning snack yesterday and we have learned that you have to hide the vegetables if you want him to eat any protein. As he polished off the zucchini I read the Washington Post online and wondered what the fuck the Israelis are doing. "Patrick, my treasure, what do you think the Israelis are doing?" He didn't know either.

Having orchestrated the transfer of the heir in the morning, Steve had trundled off to the basement to put in the plumbing for the guest bathroom that will eventually emerge down there. Every so often a melodious expletive would rise from the depths and I would pause to make sure this wasn't followed by the pounding of footsteps that will one day presage Steve rapidly exiting the basement covered in his own gore.

It was unusually hot yesterday, 87 F, and very windy - tornado weather. The idea of being smashed to pieces by a tree trunk or my Wodehouse collection or part of our roof unnerves me, so Steve was summoned to explain to me (again) why we will never ever be hit by a tornado in this house.

"We are in a valley."

Well, what if the tornado gets stuck in the valley and has nowhere else to go but here?

"Tornadoes almost always travel north-east. It would get stopped by that ridge."

How does he know these things?

>> I am interrupting this maundering to tell you that I am just back from a doctor's appointment. An appointment that I didn't even bother to mention in the first place because... well, so what. So what is that I now have seven, SEVEN, stitches in my abdomen and I am so fucking annoyed about it I could scream. Scream like this, AIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Yeah, fine, so those moles had to go. They had been getting stranger looking and leering at me for too long now, but shouldn't someone have warned me that I was going to wind up with these massive bloody craters due east and west of the belly button? HUH? What if I had a photo-shoot (tasteful, of course, all very artistic and quite professionally done, considering the props) scheduled? You should never assume that just because I am a housewife I don't have outside interests, you know. Anyway, I am utterly crabby and my wounds are oozy and starting to sting. Wow. I actually just GROWLED.

Ouch. They hurt. This sucks.

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