Rebellion?

It is past my bedtime, as it has now become Sunday morning. Getting all of us clean and ready for church seems difficult enough after a full night of rest. So why am I still up?
It is not that I cannot sleep easily. Ask the Mister; I fall asleep quickly and inopportunely.
And it is not that I find myself amidst a vital, uncompleted task. I have completed everything I purposed to do today. (There are those freshly baked cookies waiting to be boxed up, but can you call baked goods vital?)
No child is sick. No worries press me down. No one is telling me to go to bed.

Ah. There it is. I am the grown-up now. I guess I want to be irresponsible. Though there will be consequences, I am enjoying this moment. I hope I remember this feeling and draw a breath of patience with my exhausted self and the demanding others. Others whose mother (me) made them go to bed at a decent hour. Maybe it will teach me a lesson on taking care of my body with proper nutrition (no cookies after 9 pm) and adequate rest.

But probably not.

Identity Confusion

She stared at the mud caked on the back of Jud's neck. That had to be uncomfortable; you couldn't fit more dirt in the treads of a monster truck tire. Did he plan on cleaning himself soon? Or would he have to wait until the nearest car wash opened? Had cars been invented yet? How did she find herself in this forsaken and bare dirt -- so much dirt -- place? Was this Kansas? Why was she even in the bathtub anyway? Would there be any grit-free clothing to put on when the water grew too cold around her? Was she really expected to marry mud man anyway? Could she actually be attracted to someone named Jud?
And why does everyone want to be the pretty young girl in the tub staring at the wrong side of the cowboy's neck?
Standing beside the bath, holding out a thin towel, the calico-dressed mother seems so much more knowing. She is stretched and faded with dust, but her position of experience (if it is a disappointed position) is surely better.
Maybe she was the mother, not the daughter. But if she was the mother, she would never let her daughter marry a man so unfamiliar with water. She would never allow a not-yet-groom in the bathroom with her bathing daughter, no matter how long he kept his back turned and head bowed. She would never name her daughter Callie and live on the barren prairie.
The girl grasped the high, curved side of the tub for balance and stood. She was neither the daughter or the old mother and she needed to wake up and take a shower. This dream had grown ridiculous... and she did not want to stick around for the heartbreaking wedding. The dirty cowboy was not that cute.

A Two-Hour Delay Means...

... A Super Start to the day! - Weston

... We can do anything we want! - Sammy

... I get to play what I like. - Norah

... No, mommy. - Willa

... Leave my coffee cup alone! - Honour

Can you see the fog? Can you see the excitement? Can you see that Willa hasn't lost any of her grumpiness from yesterday? Someone should tell her that a delayed school day means a better breakfast (fresh blueberry muffins and scrambled eggs) and a relaxed mommy. Delay or not, it's a spankin'-new-mercies day!

The Mice in the Attic -- Can You Believe It?

With help from Norah, age 5.

Once upon a time there was a mouse that lived in our attic toy room. His name was John-Nick. Can you believe it? He had a really big family. But they were hungry, because the only food in the attic was the plastic kind meant for the little kitchen play set. They tried to fill thier tummies with paper and crayons, because they were easier to chew. Can you believe it? Sometimes, one of the baby mice would try to eat the woolen blankets that are stored in the attic. But these really only made good food for moths, and Mrs. John-Nick told her babies that woolens are best intended as bedding for both man and beast. Can you believe that John-Nick and his family were not familiar with the living conditions of their cousins downstairs? It was probably for the best.

Leaving the Unwanted Company

Tonight, even my imagined readers have left me. For once, I do not mind. Really, I am in the mood for solitude. If I do write anything of import, I want to type my incoherent feelings unencumbered by who might see them. I want to use long run-on sentences and the backspace button at will. Writing within this battle of disgruntled and reflective thoughts is time- and energy consuming for me. It calls for a snack and a cup of coffee nearby.

This is not a good time or place to have any crumb-bequeathing edibles nearby. As long as I may be at this, I fear my typing is not loud enough to scare away the mouse that seems to have taken up residence beneath the computer desk. The tiny little scratches upon the wooden floor (or is that a miniature mouth chewing on a stack of printer paper?) are about to drive me to bed. Since I don't have a laptop of my own, and my mind and emotions are a thick mushy glop of unsortableness, I will go to bed at this ridiculously early hour with the Archbold Community Library's latest selection from Alexander McCall Smith. If anyone out there is reading my words, please stop and go find one of his books. If you're disappointed in it, please let me know so that I can straighten you out.
Maybe over that snack and cup of coffee.
In another room of this old, hole-riddled house.