Hot House

When I left on Friday to spend the weekend with my mom and two sisters (no kids, no husbands), I left wearing jeans, a fleece hoodie, a fleece jacket, socks and clogs. I came home -- after nearly dying in a freak side-ways raining electrical storm that had me seeking cover in some random mall in some random town -- in filthy white shorts and a (borrowed) t-shirt drenched in sweat. It's hot, yo.

Despite the never ending whining about the sudden swelter, we ladies had some excellent lady time. We hiked to see a waterfall. It was scary but beautiful. We saw graffiti from 1867 carved into granite. We visited small town tag sales and Church fundraisers. We ate highbrow (jicama, soft shell crabs, "mock" ravioli) and lowbrow (hot dogs, curly fries, milkshakes). We traded jewelry. We slept late.

I learned that when telling funny stories it seems to be a prerequisite in my family to stand up and act out said story. With voices. Everyone did it. We are nothing if not good standing-up story tellers and I also think they we all probably lie a little too for the sake of the thing.

When my babies were born, I remember waking up the next morning and after figuring out where I was and what had happened, I felt a lurch like it was Christmas morning when I was six. I'd feel that same way for weeks, when in the blurry haze of being dragged yet again out of sleep, I would suddenly become conscious with the knowing: i have a baby! and the baby is mine! and the baby is cute!

No matter how shitty and ugly the day or night before may have been, I still feel that way when I see their puffy, sleepy faces first thing in the morning. It doesn't last long, I admit, because if they're awake and I'm awake it means the race is on to get out the door on time. And some kind of nonsense usually starts and something is lost or doesn't fit right and I need coffee and a hairbrush and holy crap, what do you mean you can't find your homework?

But the point is, when I wake up some place without them waking me up, which has happened what? maybe a dozen times over the last 8 years, I'm reminded of that feeling or I guess that lack of feeling and as great as it is to go away and be all kidless and fancy-free, it is always good to come home.

But it's hot, yo. The fort got smashed up again which probably was to be expected because you know what they say about crime and heat waves. And even the garden is hot and the flowers are lying down like they're just too weary to stretch up. Annie delivered brussel sprouts and cantaloupe and red bell peppers to put in the ground, but the thought of digging in dirt just seemed too... sweaty. But I swear that I will in the morning. Right now, I'm just pleased to have put a dinner on the table that did not involve the stove or the oven or heat of any kind. And I'm just glad to be sitting here very.slowly.typing so that I don't start sweating again.

I bought this for $2 from some awesome broad selling plants from her garden (one was marked "do you remember Mrs. Jeffert's hollyhocks?") and I think it is my new prized possession: