A Pleasant Lack of Story

Hello! I am still here. Still a mom, not much else to report. My life is happy and boring, which leaves me nothing to write about because mostly I am content with the day-to-day but when I try to describe it to someone I get all depressed because, wow, I could have saved a lot on that college education I got and continue to not use.

(I did get a husband out of it, though, and via him, Miss Thang, and certainly no one could put a price on that, especially given how many of our material possessions we have forsaken due to her darling bodily fluids at various times over her three+ year life, so clearly worthwhile. ... Maybe I should have hit the bars a little harder and not stressed about the test, man, after all.)

I just read A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: How I Learned to Live a Better Story, which is the most terrible title ever, but gave me a bit to think about. I miss having good (un-poop-related) stories to share, and I like the idea of seizing control of the story of my life and taking it in a more...directed? direction. However, I feel like there is rarely much time between the meal planning, bill paying, car maintenance, weeding, and laundry, if I still want to attempt to sleep at all. Which I do. I love sleeping. I would take a little more sleep over most stories. I realize this is not a new argument, I am guessing the point of the book was to examine all the weeding and peanut butter and jelly-spreading and carve out more time for storytelling, but it seems insurmountable to me.

Which isn't to say we haven't been having fun. We have. We are traveling three out of four weekends this month, and usually traveling makes for some good stories. Like how Miss Thang liked to pretend to die in front of her great-grandmother (husband's estranged father's mother), repeatedly, as her chosen form of imaginative play, on that trip. So that was awk-ward.

As was pulling a splinter out of her tush on a picnic table in the middle of Rocky Mountain National Park with swarms of tourists walking by.

Oh man, she better hope her father forgets that story before her prom date shows up.

(At least it wasn't me...?)

On that note, I have to go pack for our next trip. We're getting up at 4:00 AM to take two airplanes, one of which appears to be barely bigger than the PlaySkool one in her toybox, to attend a wedding and drive all over the dang east coast. Surely there will be stories in that. Keep your fingers crossed that none of them will be poop-related.