And I must add that apparently around our neighborhood, there is a pack of boys who spend their days in heated speculation about what is in our shed. What do YOU think is in our spectacular shed?
If I were to tell, the boys would most likely be terribly disappointed, so I will not breathe a word of what DWELLS in our shed. Hoo-haa-haa-haa.
The garden is already growing out of control. There are a couple weeks before the end of classes when everything gets rather hairy: the lawn grows unbelievably long, much to the chagrin of our neat neighbors (and this year the lawn mower is broken), the house gets a worn, fuzzy appearance; the children are lucky if their hair is brushed and their toenails clipped. Martin and I begin substituting high-fives or groans for real conversation, and we begin eating from troughs instead of from plates with silverware. Instead of "Pass the buTTer please," we grunt or slam the table for emphasis. No need to articulate words, no need in these packed days with not enough moments for civilized behavior.
Of course our "packed days" are relatively calm compared to the days of city-dwellers with multiple jobs; but we are who we are, and our house is always filled with people who are family though not related to us by blood, and therefore our lives are busy in different ways--suppers need cooking for more than our own mouths; Merry's homework needs to be done though I am the only parent present two nights this week; the beds need weeding, our children and other people's children need love, the house is in great need of a vacuum, I need to edit and send off a story; and Martin has hit the inevitable crunch-time at the end of school.
Meanwhile the lilacs are blooming. It is an absolutely perfect day outside--65 degrees and sunny, with no wind. I feel pressed by this perfection to throw off the responsibilities of being an adult who lives in this messy house and go for walks with Bea, who longs for the outdoors. And so I shall.
Hoo-haa-haa-haa!
