A few people have asked me if I am on the verge of killing myself, and so I need to confess: I am more joyful now than I have ever been in my entire life.
I have finally stopped swimming against the current. I know what month the crocus comes, and I know when to expect the grass to return.
I can buy flour in bulk knowing that I will use it before the moths find it. I seldom fill my tank with gas.
And my babies and my husband. My animals and my messy, filthy home. It brings me joy to the point of tears on almost a daily basis.
This is why I want to get a tattoo. To commemorate this time of rhythmn, of peace. Of chaos and diapers. Of borrowing money from my mother to cover mortgage. Errr. Wait.
But I hate when people unload their happy crap on Internet, so I try instead to focus on the funny, pathetic and desperate times of the day.
Because this is what I like to read about when you tell me about YOUR day, anyway.
Rest assured: I’m not putting my head in the oven yet. Although that would be how I would do it.
I’m sorry I’m not comfortable enough in my joy to give the full impression. I’m still figuring it out.
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