“I don’t want there to be anything alive in the basket you just brought onto the porch!”
“okaaay…” Two little people skulk off the porch to empty a basket of – something. I think about returning to my breath, about getting out the purple ass pillow that is designed to make meditation comfortable (at this moment I hear Brad Warner saying something like “pussy! sit up straight and stop bitching about your bony ass”) and I envision myself focusing on my breath while my children befriend rattlesnake babies or small creatures in the yard. Some other time, transcendentalism.
Snow Patrol. We don’t need anything, or anyone. If I lay here- if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?
In the distance, a plot is hatching. How can they distract me long enough for one of them to unbury the baby mud turtle from its new home in the flower pot? No way. I’m not doing it, she’ll kill us.
Avery is such an incredible troublemaker; an evil genius except we can’t really call her evil can we; since she is six and filled with daisies and rainbows, explosions of light and musical laughter when she looks at you?
All that I am- all that I ever was is here is your perfect eyes.
The plan is scrapped. Boy with a Coin is the soundtrack to a collection of rocks and a game that involves creating a pirate ship from an arrangement of chairs and a mini trampoline.
“Please don’t land in the fish pond!”
I catch a glimpse of my son walking by with a play cell phone pressed to his ear. One moment, his hand gesture tells me. His hulk pajamas might say party but his body language is all business.