Homebody

Someone was in my bed. Instinctively, I snuggled close.

Scrawny little thing, this one . . . who is this? Oh, my baby daughter Lillie. Guess she made her way to my room at some point.

I get up to start the coffee and get breakfast going. I’ll blog while the kettle roils.

Between holidays, kids and travel—not to mention my new blogging habit—I have fallen behind on household chores. I need to get on the ball before the arrival of Christmas guests.

Yesterday, I cooked three meals, doing all the dishes.

Breakfast: bacon, eggs, grits, choice of juice.

Lunch: choice of sandwich, raw carrots, lemonade, tea or water.

Dinner: salmon cakes, fried potatoes, apple sauce, fruit juice or lemonade.

I made a round of grocery shopping to see us through the weekend with all the basics, spending $140.00. I bought a poinsetta.

I helped Jason with a homework project that tested the limits of how well I can fake my knowledge of sixth-grade science.

My eight-year-old son Collie and I played several rounds of Mad Libs, in which you must supply words to fill in the blank for absurd stories. The noun that always makes us laugh is “skunk.” Collie, by the way, is not named for the breed of dog—it is short for Columbus, an old family name.

Lillie and I filled several pages of her Peanuts coloring book. She loves Snoopy. I identify most with Linus, but I have a crush on Marci. I like her glasses and the way she refers to her girlfriend Peppermint Patti as “Sir.”

Lillie and I also played “Rock Star,” one of her favorite games. She assembled an audience of stuffed animals for the performance. She played guitar, I supplied drums and backing vocals. She performed ten new songs, each titled by a number.

You can’t sing along if you don’t know the words.

Number Six

If you open up your eyes
Look behind you and see me
I’ll always be behind you
Until I see you again

Number Eight

When I love you, I will always love you
On the ground
On the ground

When I’m grown up, I will always love you
When I’m dead
When I’m dead

After the performance, we signed autographs.

I finally caught up on laundry, after six loads. All folded and put away, but for a pile of unmatched socks. Do I blame the dryer for stealing the kids’ socks, or do the unmatched losses migrate to their Mom’s house one by one?

One pair of black panties. Not Raven’s, Marla wears none . . . maybe Dacia’s? I put them aside.

A pair of blue boxers. A bit large for me . . . Jake’s? Todd’s? The worn elastic sends them to the garbage chute. The guy who lost them here should have lost them long before.

Do my gatherings need a Lost and Found bin?