We have raspberries. Growing in our very own yard. I am still blown away by my new life, by my suburban riches. I keep marveling to myself, mouth askew, "I have a driveway, a yard, a raspberry bush..." I must look like a mental patient to the neighbors.
As I nibble a sweet berry I must note, Stella has officially turned terrible two. She still has her positive qualities, but holy magoly.
All she wants when I'm around is her daddy, to pick her up, to help her with her Crocs, to get her cereal, blah blah, and like another little girl we know, only wants to do everything "all by self!!!!" which means that I get to stand outside the car while she attempts to buckle herself into her carseat, or I get to stand holding heavy (reusable) grocery bags on the back stairs while she attempts to open the screen door, God forbid I touch the handle! Who do I think I am? Satan?
Lots of flinging of bananas, smearing of milk, asking for food and then not eating it, refusing to get dressed, insisting on wearing flip flops that never stay on her feet, while I stand there grinding my teeth and talking like a Sleestack in order to keep my cool.
My cool, heh heh. Yeah, right. And then the other night my mom was over, bless her almost seventy-five year old heart, and she was nagging the kids, and doing her worry jig, "don't run around with beads on your neck, Stella, you'll get strangled!" and "Stella? Where is she?" panic mounting in her voice as if the UPS man just stole her out of the house, and then "Hamish! don't put that plastic thing in your mouth, you'll choke!"
And by then both my eyes were twitching, and the words erupted from my mouth like bad fish, "Oh Mom, let him choke!" at which point my mom spit out her seltzer all over me, and I got down on the floor with a wad of paper towels, grateful for laughter, because I'd just about forgotten it existed.