I think everything’s good. Besides a mini fire ant ambush—the sizzling hot bites that lead to pus-filled mounds that ache for days—I’m not a fan of those. But the promise of the week ahead, hitting the 80s, feels right.
I bought two ornate birdbaths off Facebook Marketplace yesterday, along with sixteen panels of privacy fence, five planting pots, and twenty panels of a mini picket fence. I only went there for the birdbaths. But when you’re a discount shopper, and you land at a man’s home whose relationship with Lowe’s gets him 75% off end-of-season items—and he stores it all in garages, in the yard, and in five storage sheds—you end up handing over all the cash in your wallet.
“Mele Kalikimaka” is playing in my head. Like someone talking in their sleep, oblivious to their own utterings, the song’s sound is as vivid as if I were being welcomed to an island holiday vacation.
And I’m not.
I’ve just told Evelyn that, despite her desire for a meal at 9:45 p.m., the kitchen is closed. The idea of a closing time came from ChatGPT, and out of all the things I’ve tried to calm her overtired body’s sobs, this reasoning did it.
“It can’t close,” she protested at first. “It isn’t a restaurant. The kitchen is there.”
I told her yes, it was there—but the workers, Mom and Dad, had closed it.
Although she disagreed two more times, the emotional intensity softened into a mist. That’s when I explained overtiredness to her, and how silly little things can seem like big things. I reflected back on how just minutes earlier, she’d wailed about the lack of dipping syrup for her French toast casserole four days prior.
Then she laughed at her own meltdown. I tucked her in, and now here I am.
Our late night was due to Cinderella. Seeing that we have a few weeks to go until Disney, I’m trying to fill her brain with all the lore and characters she’ll meet when she’s there.
And that’ll do it. I’m off to see the wizard, aka the sandman, to bring me a dream. I hope it’s a good one.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 