60+ hour work weeks. A five and an eight year-old. I didn't see this summer happening this wildly. I assumed Eric and I would be spending most of our nights drunk, gliding like electric jellyfish from porch to porch in a tender and spineless duo-absorbed nature. But alas I have found my work ethic and will continue to be pushed to the brink. Screams, dirty dishes, grubby little boy hands, fights, tears: foster parenting. It's not all bad. When the time comes for me to poop out a baby, I'll be the best damn candidate for mothering there is. In the meantime I get to enjoy being at home more, gardening, reading, little things. And however much I think I hate being here on bad days, I do love it. Examples:
Time to make my own meals again!
My first harvest!
Wings have finally spread, more petals haveopened. I've realized that life is work. The best part is how willing I am to keep moving forward. I don't know where the road will take me and I can't say I even have a vague idea of what will happen. "The leafy bold plants open their large leaves and enjoy what is left of Summer." Words that came out of a black box of technology into the clouds above my head. And I couldn't say it better.
In other news, of all the things so bittersweet, he's the first thing I see in the the morning and the last thoughts I have in my sleep. Everyone in town's got his number, everyone thinks they've got him pegged right.
There's no sure footing while caught in the fangs of a tornado sprawl.
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