Madness Personified

It’s February. Like, the month that the groundhog comes out and some winter-loving weirdo points out his shadow to him. (You can't tell me it doesn't go down that way, Allan.) And then if that weren't strange enough, everybody starts donating their hard-earned cash to that wonderful charity called Hallmark. And then, finally, leap year children get a rare and precious birthday bash. Or SHOULD. Anyway, it is/was ALSO the latest projection of when Rosetta Stones would hit bookstores. I forget what I have shared and what I haven’t shared with you, the web-reading world, so I’ll just go back to an indiscriminate beginning and start over. Remember the dude hired to do my cover way back, like, two years ago?? I’m sure I told you this, but one day he quit. Just like that. *angrily snaps fingers* This was the dude whom I believe had done all the previous covers for Central Ave. Press. Seemingly reliable and professional. But not. So, needless to say, they had to find a replacement, which turned out to be as easy as licking your elbow. I offered up my ubertalented artist brother-in-law. My highly-regarded artist MHM cohort. They had a few other people in mind, as well. And after much deliberation and angst, they finally settled on a lovely artist who is working on my book’s cover as we speak. *jumps up and down with glee* You would think that this would be occupying my every waking thought. Or, maybe you wouldn’t. IT SHOULD be occupying my every waking thought. And I’m sure it WILL here in the next few days. But that part of my brain which didn't get fried back in the '90s has been busy studying for something called the Certified Crop Adviser Exams. I sacrificed all of my January to this cause. And part of my December, too. All my sparest of spare moments were spent learning about nitrification, mineralization, allelopathization, hoop-de-hoopation, too. And then, finally, my SIX HOUR exams were on Friday. In Longmont, which is north of Denver. Which is four and a half hours north of my house. I’ve still not fully recovered from the exams. Or driving through Denver during rush hour. I only write to say hi. I’m still here in case you wondered…. One million miles north of Important and two billion miles west of Happy, as Sherman Alexie would say. Actually, I’m very, very happy. My youngest child, Kyra, had this runaway rash taking over her face like THE THIRTIES is taking over mine. It was seepy and bumpy and…. SPREADING.

Exhibit A.

I care about you, dear reader, so I'll spare you the picture of the ACTUAL rash. Just know that it took over her entire chin.

That is UNTIL I had this great idea about putting antibiotic stuff on it and covering it so she would quit scratching. Dr. Catherine saved the day.

Exhibit B. Taken today.

Now the only thing covering her chin (and cheeks) is lunch, thankyouverymuch.

Meanwhile, Emma has learned that she can screw with her mommy’s head SO LONG as it’s while Mommy is still suffering from six-hour exam hangover.

As I was trying to get my two youngest children to brush teeth yesterday, this exchange transpired:

Emma: I gave Kyra a badge and she won’t give it back, Mommy.

Me: Kyra, give Emma back her badge.

Kyra: But… But… it’s a gwove. *she says as she shows me her mitten* It’s MY gwove.

Me: Emma, that’s not a badge, it’s a mitten. It’s KYRA’S mitten.

E: No, Mommy. It’s not the mitten. It’s a badge ON the mitten. I gave it to her and now she won’t give it back

Me:*frustrated sigh* Okay, Kyra, give her back the badge that’s ON the mitten.

Kyra looks at me with a sadness that can only be described as “Omigod, you too??” She then pretends to take off the imaginary badge and throws it back at Emma who reaches down to her feet where I suppose it landed, picks it up, and systematically sheds hurt tears because it wasn’t handed to her NICELY.

Me: Kyra, you weren’t supposed to THROW the badge. Say sorry for throwing the badge at your sister.

Meanwhile, Emma is cradling the invisible badge to her chest, fat tears dripping down her trembling cheeks.

Kyra spews out a half-assed apology and stomps out of the room with unbrushed teeth mumbling something about not having any fwends.

It’s a sad day indeed when the sanest person in the house is still wearing diapers at bedtime.

I hope to have more book updates in the next few weeks. In the meantime, I will be putting up my feet and catching up on all ya’lls blogs.