Sunday Night Journal

I just took a week off from blogging to get priorities straight and to take the time to plop some blueberries on my Cheerios in the morning.

We’ve been working very hard for a really long time deferring fun for some far away goal. At some point, you have say, "dude, this is it. This is your life. Deal with it." So, I’ve been trying to enjoy the moment more and all that nonsense by not farting around the computer too much and by setting reasonable work goals for myself, ticking them off a list, and then spending more time socializing.

Jonah was released from his highly structured summer camp this week
and he had absolutely no clue what to do with himself. One afternoon,
while Ian was in daycare, Jonah sat on a pillow watching me work at the
computer for two hours. I finally gave up and played with him. He
didn’t even want to read by himself. So, I sat on the futon with him.
He read his Captain Underpants book, while I worked my way through the
Harry Potter series.

I decided that I would reread the whole series before reading the
last one. Like Dan, I can read these Harry Potter books in a day or
two, like Godiva chocolates.
I’m a tad worried that this heavy dose of Potter is going to turn me
into one of those girls who’s convinced that she’s Hermione Granger.
God, they’re everywhere.

I know that the blogosphere is aswirl with Harry commentary, but I’m refusing to read it until I work my way through the series. OK, who’s the biggest geek. Moi.

We spent a lot of time at the swim club last week, because it keeps
the boys amused. Ian’s gradually getting more brave about getting his
face wet, and Jonah has perfected his cannonball almost to the virtuoso
level that he’s reached with the underarm fart.

I had to buy more bathing suits for the boys at Old Navy, because I
couldn’t keep up with the washings. Jonah likes his bathing suits a
size or two small, because he’s terrified that he’ll emerge from one of
his stellar cannonballs sans suit. The elastic must have a death grip
on his stomach before he’ll enter the pool.

This weekend, we dove
into the world of kitchen rehab. Our kitchen dates back the avocado
green era. It needs a complete gutting. We’re planning on expanding it
by cutting a bathroom in half and losing a mudroom. It’s a big job that
we’ve been putting off for a while. When we first moved in, we did some
cosmetic work in there, but it needs much more than a coat of paint. We
need all new lighting, ceilings, insulation, floors, cabinets,
appliances, and windows. So, I bought some magazines and have been
starting to learn the lingo — Corian, soapstone, bamboo, maple, oak,
shaker, casements, temperature controlled ice dispensers.

On
Saturday night, our neighbor behind us, Brita, hollered for me to come
over. She and another neighbor had hooked up a projector on their porch
and were watching a Dave Mathews concert. A beer was shoved in my
direction, and I was told to pick out the cutest guy in the band. It got
sillier from there as we shared our ideas for "the best store ever."
And Brita told us stories about the women who shop in the Banana
Republic where she works. Apparently, there are some very bored women
who ring up $1,000 tabs and then come back and return everything in a
week or two. One guy came in last week with a leather jacket that he
bought in 2002 and wanted a full refund because the zipper was broken.
Brita takes a very hard line with the weirdo returners.

OK,
just some ramblings. There are some excellent articles and posts on
work-family stuff this week. But as part of my new chilled-out self I’m going to
link to them tomorrow.