It’s Friday night. I’m in my room, the door shut, a glass of white wine on the bedstand beside me. Noises float up through the floor boards: my son playing around on the piano, the kids chattering, the odd loud thumps and bumps.
I have some free time to chat, but I’m not sure what about. I’ve gotten used to keeping my thoughts bottled up, not writing about all the This and That. So much of the goings on around here feels like big stuff. Monumental. It would take pages to catch up, to explain how we’ve gotten to where we are. Just the thought of explaining all that bottled-up stuff makes me feel like curling up in a ball. Staring at a wall is so much easier.
So I end up not saying anything at all. I don’t like that option either.
But you know what? Being tight-lipped is easier than I thought. (That I’m 37 and am only now figuring this out makes me snort.)
Then there’s the time factor, too. That’s another reason I’m not writing much. Even though I still have free time, my mind is cluttered with thoughts of luggage and travel expenses and plane tickets and insurances. I don’t have the space for my thoughts to spread out and develop. My brain is in lock-down mode.
I’m back to not cooking anymore. We’re eating from the freezer: green beans, corn, green beans, pesto, green beans, sour cherries, green beans.
Today the kids had two varieties of leftover green beans on their plates. They were not pleased. I told them it was an opportunity to do a taste test.
The Romas won.
But I have big plans for this weekend. Bierocks and treacle tart are at the top of my list. I think my muggles will be mighty happy.
I was going to read to the kids tonight, but now my husband just put them all to bed and it’s only 8:21. The house is soft with quiet. Soon I’ll head downstairs and we’ll make sweet and spicy popcorn and watch Once while the wind rattles the metal roof.
Good night, lovies. As soon as my brain relaxes, I’ll write more.