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Thursday, June 18, 2009

the eye

I hate it when I'm rattled.

My brain has been shaken, not stirred, and all goodly thoughts have fallen out my ears, leaving me humming little dittys like 'Shoo Fly', meaningfully.

I long for a calm inside myself; the ability to let things slide, and to remain steady as kids - mine, the neighbors', random kids at the park - scream and race and hassle and beg and whine and run.

Perhaps it would be better if I didn't join them in the shenanigans and played the adult, the parent, the reasonable one.

So I packed up the kids, plus one, and we went to the park for a impromptu 5th grade party - because 4 days of celebrating at school wasn't enough - and I spread out my cheerful polka dotted blanket and read.

I read while Zack whined about being left out.

I read while Lexi rolled her eyes at me, the only parent that showed up for this supposedly supervised shindig. (I knew there was something fishy about this plan.)

I read while the ice cream truck sent children into convulsions.

I read, and I nodded and I kept my voice clear and low and detached.

I soaked up the sun, and laid my weary head down on a picnic table. The hours passed.

We packed up the car and I breathed a sigh of relief: Goodbye to the school year, and welcome waffles for dinner because it is hard to be crabby when eating gooey syrup and fluff.

6 comments:

flutter said...

it really is hard to be mad with a waffle

Shana said...

>>the ice cream truck sent children into convulsions.

True dat.

All Adither said...

Nicely written. The whining sure does tire one out quickly.

Jennifer H said...

Read, lady, read. (Wishing for some calm for you...waffles do help) ;-)

Tom said...

Our firstborn should be along any day now. Nice to know what we have to look forward to. (Not that different from my job, really, except I get to leave those kids at the end of the day) :)

Grace and peace to you and all the good parents--
TW

Minnesota Matron said...

I've done this. That's why I have a van book, a purse book, a living room book, a kitchen book . . . you get the drill (and the avenues for escape).