I have a lot of problems in this life. Such as:

Jane walked into the bathroom with every part of her scalp swathed in bows, every color, every size.

“I do bows mommy.”

I took a deep breath.

“Let’s just pick one bow. How about the pink one?”

Jane threw herself prostrate on the ground, which reminded me it’s been at least a month since I mopped the floors.

“NOOOOOOO. I do ALL THE BOWS!”

I backtracked, “OK, fine. You can wear all the bows.”

But the damage was done.

Her sensitive swollen toddler ego was bruised.

“I DO ALL THE BOWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

For a moment I considered the fact that her tears were doing a fairly decent job of cleaning the floors, and then I picked her up and put her in my lap.

“Watch Einstein?” she asked pitifully, bows jutting out in all directions like multicolored horns.

(Little Einsteins is a cartoon that strives to be educational about classical music and art, and while I appreciate that, it also makes my left eye twitch.)

We never made it to church. I totally gave up. But in a good way. Jane needed all the bows. She needed to sit in her eye-twitching mother’s lap and watch Little Einsteins. Mabel needed goldfish crackers.

It’s not too often that I can say I was defeated by bows.

But church will always be there next week.

 

Dear Jane,

In the past month of farmer’s market trips you have discovered your love of fresh flowers. It’s not enough for you to gaze at them appreciatively from afar. You must possess them in your tight, sticky, grasp. You smell them, and pet them, and love on them until their stems break. Actually, you get a little “my precious” about the entire situation.

Even when I explained to you that the flowers needed to drink water because they get thirsty, you hung on the side of the dining table, stared at them in their vase, cried, wailed, gnashed your little teeth and yelled, “But dey’re mine. MY BOWERS.”

Thereafter you got your own bouquet of flowers on our trips the market. After taking this picture I decided it was the best $3 ever spent on anything. Ever.

Recently you’ve decided to give me all your boogers, and in addition, you’ve also decided to help me pick my own. My therapist has often told me I have problems establishing boundaries. I’m usually OK with people all up in my business, past the point of acceptable, but this goes beyond even my comfort level.

“No, Jane. I can pick my own boogers,” I’ll tell you.

“But I hep you mommy,” you respond, finger poised for my nostrils, ready to attack bats in the cave.

You are coming into your own, my sweet girl. Your opinions, your moods, your expressions, your ideas… they are authentic and all your own. You’ve learned to stick up for yourself, you’ve forced us to watch Lady and the Tramp twenty kabillion times, and you are so sweet to Mabel, despite the fact that she totally despises you (luckily you don’t realize it). You are trying so hard to grow up, to be big, and to wear your purple tulle skirt every single day.

We are so proud of you. We love you just the way you are, booger picking and all.

Love,

Mommy

Whew. Breaks are good. I can’t remember the last time I signed off for a week.

I made a valance for the kitchen window, cleaned out some drawers, marathoned Breaking Bad like a crazy woman, and visited with my sister. I got bit by mosquitoes, the yard got mowed, flowers bloomed, and I watched an inebriated man fall over a trash can and into a parking lot while yelling, “More salsa, Carol! More salsa!” I love when the universe provides entertainment perfection.

So that’s me. How are you? I do so love the emails I’ve been getting lately. Thank you. All of you. I’m blessed to know so many sweet ladies.

Happy Monday!

Several summers ago I grew zinnias. It was wonderful and we had cut flowers for over a month. I don’t know why I didn’t keep growing them. They got lost in my memory, in busyness, in baby-raising.

I’ve rediscovered them this summer at our local farmer’s market. $3 will buy you a lovely bunch, they last a week, and they’re quickly reclaiming their spot as my favorite flower. This is the summer of zinnias. It’s also the summer of cucumbers. And peaches. All this fresh produce is spoiling us.

Jane and I were on our own this weekend. We’re on our own a lot lately. But it’s nice to have girl time. We painted our toenails (“red-pink” was the color Jane wanted). She got her very own bunch of flowers. She swam and watched Lady and the Tramp 5 kabillion times. We tried potty training, and it resulted in great excitement about princess panties and not much success. Unless you count success as me cleaning up many, many puddles. It finally dawned on me that this is going to be a long process.

All the kiddos go back to school soon. The sun isn’t staying up quite as late in the evenings. It’s still hot as blazes, but it’s starting. It’s the decline of summer. I have to say, when it’s cold and blustery and the trees lose all their leaves, I’ll miss these zinnias. I’ll miss this summer.

 

My formerly powder blue dining room (seen here) got a mini-overhaul. It’s now Alabaster thanks to the local Sherwin Williams store. I love that place. They really do have great paint. If they ever want a southern, slightly hyper, pear-shaped spokeswoman, they know where to find me.

The funny thing is, I really like the blue color upstairs in the dressing room and bathroom, but somehow it irritated the phooey out of me in the dining room. So, Alabaster it is. It’s a really great white, warm and creamy without looking dirty. And yes, I realize my love of white walls is a little bit of a sickness. My friends think me very strange. I blame Rachel Ashwell and all her Shabby Chicness that blew my mind in college. I’ve never quite recovered.

I also rearranged the plates in the kitchen on either side of the doorway, and there are officially five thousand nail holes in the walls. But the important thing is you can’t actually see the holes, and since we all know that’s what really matters, it’s all good.

A couple of interesting things happened during this little re-do.

1. I found what I can only assume was a miniature tarantula in the corner of the dining room. He had weird legs and fur. I trapped him under a glass, and when I removed it, he jumped to nearly eye level with me. At this juncture I stepped backwards, into the paint pan, screaming, flailing, clearly not a match for a spider measuring no more than a centimeter. What can I say. He had fur. He wins.

2. No matter how many times I pressed “dislike” Pandora felt sure that I needed to listen to Sympathy for the Devil and Hotel California. Those two songs. They wear on my last nerve and I have no idea why.

So to wrap things up, here’s the thing I’m learning about decorating: it just takes time. You have to live in a place for a while. You have to see what times of day the light changes, or which windows always face the direction storms move in. You have to watch tv at night, and fold laundry during the day. You have to cook on Saturday afternoons, and sit on the patio at night. Eventually, the house will tell you what it wants. Rushing it only leads to powder blue dining rooms and badly hung art. I’m a case in point.

Just a side note: I have Alabaster paint in my hair, still, two days later. I’ve washed my hair three times and it’s still there. I’ve decided to just own it. Like I did it on purpose.