Twenty-nine

Guess what happened today? I found the silver lining.


No, for reals, I actually looked up at the clouds this morning, after the rain stopped, and saw the sun shining behind one of them. It created a bright, glowy edge along that big cloud, and I thought, Huh. There it is.


Nothing has changed. The taxes are still there, as is every other stress in life like aging parents, missing siblings and the ever-present question of "Why haven't we won the lottery yet?".


But.


While the puppy is a nut job, he's sweet and fuzzy and when he pounces on me at 5:30 in the morning with his 110 pounds and then circles around and drops down ass first on my pillow, it's sort of charming. If you can get past the wind getting knocked out of you by his not-so-soft landing on your ribcage, and his hindquarters an inch from your nose.


Maybe I should get smart and realize it's him telling me to get up for that 6am class so he can spoon his alpha dog.


And my girls are crazy and combative but they are healthy and strong and funny as hell, and all of those things, even the crazy/combative parts, are going to serve them very, very well someday. I'm happy to be their training ground.


Also? Good things are coming. Fun, interesting, different, challenging, new things. They're coming. I know they are. And if this isn't your first time reading this, you know I love anticipation. And today is my favorite day of the week. So today, my coaster is glistening in that silver lining and going tic-tic-tic up the incline, and I'm inhaling and outhaling and letting go and becoming transparent and letting it wash right through me as I fall into the next steps of my life.


I'm blessed to have today and I pray I get tomorrow. I live in the quiet, joyous expectation of good. (I didn't write that, I read it somewhere. Nice, right?) My hair is frizzing into oblivion and I'm pretty sure I haven't weighed this much since the last time I was 4 months pregnant and tomorrow morning my kids will be all, We don't want that weird organic cereal for breakfast, we want Lucky Charms! And that will all be fine. Nothing some product and a little self-control and some marshmallows can't mastermind.


Maybe this is just the Nutella and Real Housewives of Orange County marathon I indulged in last night talking, but you know what?


I have hope! I believe!

Eleven.

Revelation. Today it became clear why when people run towards roller coasters, I run towards the snack stand. Okay, I walk to the snack stand, but I do it with a great deal of purpose. You understand the reference, and if you don't, read "Five".

This morning I came across what I thought was a giant dog hair dust bunny, only to realize it was DOLL hair, not DOG hair, specifically the hair of a very expensive American girl doll. I can't blame the puppy. I'm sure that dolls provide sheer chewing ecstasy, and it's not like he levitated to the top of the closet. He found the dolls on the floor. I spend my days and nights repeating myself to Seven and Nine, i.e. "Put your dolls away so the puppy doesn't eat them.". So much so and to such little desired result, that I'm no longer convinced I have a voice that humans can actually hear. Maybe I have a higher pitch than I think, and only dogs can hear me. Not my dog, of course, but other ones. Perhaps I speak muskrat, and if so, I can't blame the kids or the dog because apparently, only Captain and Tennille* can hear me.

Back to the subject at hand. When I want a thrill, I want what I don't already get in my daily life. At this point, nearly every day is filled with little highs and lows. Happy, relaxed moments (Hi puppy...), nice (brief) moments of peace (...aren't you sweet...wait a minute...), and the inevitable, gut-sinking drop (...is that a $100, half-bald doll on the dog bed next to a school library book with a freshly devoured back cover?!?).

When I want respite, I don't think, Hey, let's go have groundhog day, but let's do it strapped to a metal, topless car with a bunch of screaming strangers who smell like funnel cake. No, this girl wants complete silence, in a room that smells of cucumber water, with soft music playing while a trained therapist pretends not to be able to see my body, while simultaneously making it feel like butter.

Then I want a warm bath, a cold Chard, and more silence. Trifecta.

Each morning, I wake up happy (and by "happy", I mean wishing for four more hours of sleep). I remind myself "I am alive. I have a precious human life.". Not to mention a 100+ pound canine life, who needs to go outside and say good morning to the morning, if you know what I mean. So, I get up, and I gleefully wake the precious children from their restful sleep. See me strapped in, click, click, clicking up the coaster, birds chirping, all giddy anticipation? 

And then there I am, in a breathless pause at the top - or in my kitchen, as it were - smelling the coffee in the French press, quietly checking email on my phone, and telling myself the girls are getting dressed for school. What they're really doing is wearing their pajamas and watching a video on their iPod over and over again, but I pretend my instructions are being followed.

After a pause...here we GO. I hear screaming from the other room because someone said something to someone else, who then said something back and now it's a full-blown little girl hissy fit, complete with one kid crying and the other one screeching like a howler monkey. The puppy is eating the house, his appetizer of choice today being the moulding around the window. And suddenly, viciously, I'm ripped from my Paris dream (the French press might be as close as I get so just let me have this one) to focus once again on the empty, cracked pots on the back patio, the spider in the corner of the bathroom, the dog digging a hole in the backyard (seriously, who said getting a puppy was a good idea?), and so on.

It's all whizzing past me as I stomp into the bedroom, hair flying, arms flailing, to tell the kids to QUIET DOWN AND WHILE I'M IN HERE LET ME JUST SAY ONCE AGAIN THAT DIRTY CLOTHES GO IN THE HAMPER, NOT ON THE FLOOR, and then I stomp outside to try and explain to the dog in great detail that the lawn is not for digging and American girl dolls are not for eating, and neither, for that matter, is poop. By the time I slow down and grind to a halt, my coffee is cold and the clock tells me we're late for school. Again.

So you can keep your Boomerang and Corkscrew, your Dragon Wagon and Colossus. I've got equal thrills and spills right here: doll hair, howler monkeys, and the shards of wood under the window where the sill used to be.

I want to roll in hot to a spa retreat, but for now I'll take the 30 seconds I get each morning in my Parisian cafe, where they serve a great cup of coffee and a killer funnel cake. (Dog hair is on the house.)

*Young 'uns. Google. You'll see.