School is so out, and I am so happy. And also I am sick, with a head and chest cold from…
the library, totally the library. Public books and their germs. I tell ya. Seriously though? I feel like I have pneumonia.
I tried to go bathing suit shopping last week and finally decided I needed to go gun shopping, because I wanted to kill myself after trying on crappy suits at crappy Target. I guess after 3 kids and four years of winter-weight-gain, the $20 tankini that holds in NOTHING WHATSOEVER is just not going to cut it this year. But, I’m sorry, Dillards? Their suits are buttflippingugly, and so expensive they’d better wash my dishes and serve me lemonade by the pool that also comes with the pricetag.
It’s been raining–storming–for the past 2 days straight, which is good since that means I don’t have to water the garden. Which has been taking a good 45-minute chunk out of my day, twice a day. So that’s an hour and a half of watering dirt and picking weeds that prickle my arms. Wear gardening gloves, you say?
Fun stuff about the garden: our blackberry patch is bigger and better than ever. I’m picking a bucket of berries every morning and evening and according to my calculations that’s $8 worth of berries at Sam’s Club, daily. The kids are loving it. And I have to admit: there is truly nothing more satisfying than filling up a bucket with blackberries in your own yard. Plunk, plunk! I love it. I love blackberries and I love our garden.
Caleb bought a real pig. It will be housed at our friends’ farm with other pig friends. We will go out there to help take care of it and when the time comes, we will have him slaughtered for our bacon-gobbling pleasure.
I feel like a monster.
But not really, because I do love bacon.
Softball is fun. We have won all but one game and the girls are super-pumped.
Merrick is now four and reminded me that I need to buy him a “dating tie” so that he can take his girlfriend, Madilyn, on dancing dates and for going out for milkshakes with 2 straws. Totally adorbs. (My friend Michele better be ready, because my son knows how to treat a lady right.)
Cheyenne will be 16 in a week, and reminded me that she needs unlimited texting, a driver’s license, and permission to date her now-college-aged boyfriend. I told her yes on limited texting, we’ll work on the driver’s license, and over mine and Caleb’s cold, dead, oozing-with-maggots, lifeless bodies on the dating. For now.
Turns out, the thought of dating isn’t so cute when kids are old enough to actually do it.
And I’m having anxiety attacks out the yin-yang.