Have you ever been drinking a yoplait, and you are down to the dregs, and as you sit there with your head tilted back like a crest 360 commercial you realize that you can see your top lip inside the yogurt container, reaching, beckoning expectantly for the last chunk of cherry goodness? Or am I just weird? I just finished a can of campbells chicken noodle and am sneakingly suspicious that it was laced with speed. Or maybe it's the sudafed that I took, finally kicking in.
They all say I should write. They, who probably don't have any more time to listen to me verbally defecate all over them than I do to commit the atrocity, if for ten minutes I found out I wasn't emotionally constipated anyway. Maybe it's all of the Canadian radio I listen to. Maybe it's that I found out that Jodi slept with Colin while he was dating some girl from the food court and I am dying for the details. Maybe it's that I am paradoxically in love with a boy who can't seem to resist battering me verbally, but is so endearing in his own right and really just needs a hug. Maybe it's that I am simultaneously proud and enamored of my kids, winning awards for reading comprehension levels of 1543 wcpm (whatever that is) and best smiler in the class, while I am mind-bogglingly frustrated at them and the inescapable reality of their ever evolving femininity.
On a thousand levels I am so content and settled and happy, and really can't even imagine moving again. Anywhere. Unless somehow my house burned down and I only had to put the kids, dog, cat and my four pairs of liv jeans into the tahoe and start over. (Obviously the jeans were saved from the fire right after the kids and dog, but before the cat) But at the same time, I have the sense that we are not "there"yet. We haven't arrived, we (being me and my 6 appendages, jeans excluded) are not home yet, and we are missing something. Or missing out on something. And yet I am not afraid to find out what it is we are missing and chase it down, wrestle it to the ground, and beat it into submission.
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