Stella is a dear friend of mine and keeper of all secrets. She’s got eyes that sparkle and children that are changing the world. Read her guest post today and do encourage her to give a little more.
Oh, praise be for the holidaze. Those special cyclical moments in the calendar year when a family comes together on the pretense of bonding and celebration. Unfortunately, I now realize that I am part of that population that fears the holidaze. Think crows scavenging fields left devastated by Sherman in his plunder across Georgia. When my children depart for their homes, my emotional psyche is left a barren wasteland. And no sooner do I entertain the idea of rising from my bed to till the garden with hopes of creating new growth, then here they come again. Don’t get me wrong, I love these people like cotton candy. The smells, the image of all that spun sugary goodness melting on my tongue and racing down the interstate of my blood stream, fueling my pancreas, is heavenly. This is a standard summer high I start anticipating in June for the August state fair. But puleeeeze…. in moderation. I don’t want to end up in a diabetic coma nor do I want to be the mother I was twenty years ago when I was raising this brood. The challenge is that we simply don’t speak the same language. “Pick up after yourself, wash a dish, peel an onion” still receives looks of total incomprehension…. like I am speaking Urdu or Farsi. They can grunt at me for money, oil changes, and yoga pants and I get the message. Obviously I need to find a new translation manual but getting them to read it is another issue.