On Saturday, my daughter and I drove into town to do a bunch of errands. First up, we stopped at the thrift store. I like to check in there whenever I can, just to see what’s in stock. This time, we found some water shoes for my daughter and a couple dress-up dresses. And then my daughter appeared from behind the shoe rack wearing an old lady wig. I hooted. Other customers chuckled. We bought the wig.

She’d put the wig on whenever we got into the car, but would take it off before going into any store. Every time I looked over at the passengers seat, there she was in her sunglasses and granny hair. It about did me in.

It was when we were pulling in the gas station, our next-to-last stop, that I got an idea. “Hey, you wear the wig and glasses into the grocery store and I’ll give you a quarter for the gum machine.”

“Into the store? But everyone would look at me!” She looked at me incredulously.

“From the car to the car,” I said. “The whole time we’re in the store. It’ll be funny.”

“Fifty cents,” she countered.

“Okay, fifty cents,” I said.

“Seventy-five,” she shot back.

“No.”

She waffled for a bit—but people will look at me! I’ll feel funny!—and then she grew steely. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

As we parked the car I said, “Just forget you’re wearing a wig and glasses and focus on the shopping. We don’t have a very long list.” I wasn’t sure who the pep talk was for—me or her.

We didn’t get very far into the store before a woman from our church passed us. She stopped and turned around. “Is that…one of your children?”

“It’s a dare,” I mouthed.

“I’m not going to say anything else,” she laughed, and walked on.

We ran into another friend in the dairy aisle. In the middle of preliminary greetings, she suddenly looked over and spied my girl.

“Oh my word!” she shrieked. That is perfect! I love it! Can I have it? I’m going to a 40th birthday party today and I need that!”

She made plans to pick it up later that day (though she never did then), and then, as we headed off in different directions, she leaned over to my daughter and said, “You age so well!”

We made it through the store without further incident. No one else made a peep. Maybe prematurely gray ten-year-old girls are more common than I realized?

In the check out line, my girl picked out two airheads for her reward. She gave me a taste of each.

This same time, years previous: Kate’s enchiladas, my boy children, old-fashioned vanilla ice cream, making art

Yesterday afternoon, I took the kids over to my parents’ property so they could run around with sharp, pointy sticks and play with fire (or, as the case may be, stick the sharp, pointy sticks in the fire and then run around with them) while I went for a walk.

My husband and older son were already up there working. When schedules allow, my son has been getting up early to hitch a ride over to the property with his dad, or sometimes he’ll ride the 2 ½ miles on his bike.

After a full day of work, my son glows with sunburn, sweat, and pride at being able to wear a tool belt and his papa’s straw hat and work boots. He’s pretty pumped about having his own packed lunch and getting to hang out with The Men.

I confess, seeing my son caulking boards up there yesterday, my heart swelled up just a bit. Finally, after all these years of trying to get him to jump in and apply himself already, he’s finally doing it.

However, my back-patting got cut short first thing this morning when I assigned him the simple tasks of scrubbing the bathroom floor and sweeping the porches. He did a staggeringly horrendous job and then had a hissy fit when I insisted they be redone properly. (I won.)

So, to summarize, the gig’s not up yet. But still, it’s nice to see glimpses of the future.

(And, to be clear, it’s the hard worker that I see in the future, not the hissy fitter. Call me Pollyanna, but in cases such as these, I’m an eternal optimist.)

This same time, years previous: polyester bras

Three times this week, I got to have an evening at home. It’s a novelty, all this time on my hands. I have time to eat more than I need at supper and help with clean-up and work in the garden (begrudgingly) and read to the kids and watch Modern Family with my husband (the part where the kid was jumping on a pogo stick on the trampoline? we laughed so hard we had to stop the DVD) and go to bed in decent time. It’s nice, yes, but truth is, it’s also rather dull.

After being on such a steep learning curve for so long, pushing myself to do something so completely different from what I’m used to, The Humdrum Daily just doesn’t cut it. I feel anchor-less, indifferent, and—yes, the dread word that I use way too often—bored.

I’ll get beyond this—if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 36 years, it’s that everything is a stage and nothing lasts (also known as Having Perspective)—but in the meantime, I’m vacillating between wanting to do something else New and Scary and trying, really trying, to nestle myself back down into the nest.

Last night I half-heartedly did some hoeing, planted the zucchini (yes, we’re late), and weeded the tomatoes before collapsing on a blanket in the yard.

This was my view—all green and blue and white. Pretty.

This was me being all sorts of vapid. My kid had to check to make sure I was still alive.

Then he used me as a pillow.

What is it with kids sticking out their tongues at the camera? Do all children do this? Or is it just my uncultured monkeys?

Eventually I realized that the sunlight was kind of pretty and so I started snapping pictures of my surroundings.

I took pictures of weeds.

I took pictures of the clothesline.
 

I took pictures of the tomato cages.

I took pictures of my husband charging me with the mower.

When I didn’t move, he gave me What For.

When I still didn’t move, he backed up and went the other way.

So then I moved.

This same time, years previous: when I sat down (oh look, another post on boredom!) (it’s better than today’s), how to freeze strawberries and make strawberry jam, buttered peas and brown buttered noodles with ham