duct tape and a toy gun

Did I tell you I grew up around here? Five minutes away. I pass my childhood home sometimes on my way to Borders, Bed Bath & Beyond, the local cobbler. I've wanted to ring the bell since I moved here in 2008.

I've been doing a lot of walking lately. Traded my sticky mat for Pilates-based physical therapy. One of my doctors told me that jogging is out due to the arthritis. I was jogging for a while too. So I've downloaded Lady Gaga and Cee-lo Green and some muh-fucking song called Traktor...and I've been hoofing it all over the sleepy nabe in hopes of snagging some kind of endorphin rush, a feeling of exercise accomplished. I'm not easy to fool though. My arms, my yoga arms...I grieve. But they'll be back someday.

soap for sale!

Nothing like a shot of commerce in the tender arm of a four-year old. Hamish spent a good part of the weekend shilling homemade soap on the front lawn. He made four bucks. What will he buy? Maybe more soap. I found a recipe for homemade soap online that called for shredding unscented soap with a cheese grater and mixing in bits of lavender. Did I mention we have a lavender bush in the backyard?

Maybe next time we'll attempt the lavender cloud cookies. Mmmm, egg whites. Oh yeah, the thing was, I only had Dove soap, the smelly pink kind. But it was either that or order lye online and that was not happening, not for this spontaneous-compulsive project mom. If I can't make it in five minutes from crap found lying around the house than it ain't getting made. Plus I was motivated by my old pal Guilt, feeling a little frayed around the edges after way too much time spent drooling in front of the TV. I needed to be able to say to Bryan, to you, the world, "Guess what Hamish and I did today? We made soap!" And then bask in your approval and mild impressed surprise and possible envy.

Hamish's pal was game to sell as well and everyone who stopped bought, which tells you a little about the pace of our nabe. S-L-O-W, folks. Some people waved charitably from their cars or lawn-tending trucks, which we moms cheerleaded, "That counts! You got a wave!" But more than a few marks were oblivious to the cherubic and hygiene-minded cuteness on the sidewalk, to which we would tell the kids, "They're too busy breaking the law talking on their cell phone," bristling with indignation.

The thing that really puffed me with pride though was Hamish's fearless spirit, the way he shouted to every car or passerby, "Soap for sale! Twenty-five cents!" and shook his cardboard sign at them. I could use a bit of that—the focused intention that doesn't give a shit what other people think, because I don't have time to care, I have soap to move.

you'll choke!

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.