There are a whole bunch of blogs that I read on a regular or semi-regular basis. There is no rhyme or reason to why I’ve bookmarked your blog and why I go back. Sometimes I go back again and again because you are just so unreasonably bizarre, I can’t help it. Mostly it’s because you are someone in a similar situation to me and I’m fascinated to see how much better you cope with your life than I do with mine. Or you make me laugh. Or cry. And I’ll admit there are one or two that just make me roll my eyes, or I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking, “I can’t BELIEVE she wrote that/did that/thinks that.” Or he. I’m an equal opportunity blog reader. And I’ll construct furious mental replies that I’ll never actually send but somehow mentally writing them puts me back to sleep. Your blogs are important to me, as you can see.
Please. For me. Update.
Sometimes our paper boy fails to deliver the newspaper and I’m completely unable to read the news on-line. I must read the ACTUAL paper. Which I don’t really read so much as skim for depressing stories which I can then mull about all day, sometimes actually crying if they are really awful and then calling my mum to say, “Why did I read that? I can’t deal with it.” If the paper doesn’t come, I read blogs instead while my children play with electrical outlets and experiment with locking each other in the closet. This is MY time, damn it, and I’m going to use it for me, i.e. fritter it away doing nothing in particular but sipping coffee and staring at my computer, googling things like, “headache with blurred vision dirty contacts brain tumour”. Because I need Google to tell me whether I’m dying or I just need to refill my prescription for lenses. I can no longer decide these things for myself because I’m tired. So tired. But I digress. My point is that I need constant regular updates on complete stranger’s lives. I do! I’m not actually convinced that anyone really reads my blog so my updates are less regular. Also typing about my own life is a lot less relaxing than reading about someone else’s.
What has happened for me since I last updated? Well, I’ve had the flu. A big, bad flu which I now suspect is bronchitis, and/or a brain tumour as the screen is so blurry I cannot see what I’ve typed so far. Drat. I hope there are no typos. Also, and much worse than that, my dog died. She didn’t die passively, we had her put down, and when I say “we”, I mean “my mum” because I couldn’t do it. I had a dog put down before and it was so awful, I couldn’t even imagine doing it again and besides, Tika was my baby and I straight up couldn’t do it. Could. Not. But it had to be done, she had an osteosarcoma, could no longer move, was in pain, hadn’t eaten in days, and they couldn’t do anything for her. Mum says it was peaceful and lovely and so I’m going to remember it that way even though I was too much of a coward to go. Now I’m crying. I’m a lot of fun these days, as I’m sure you can tell. Bad flu. Four day headache. Dead dog.
Yesterday, Lola rolled off the bed after her nap. And not just any bed, but our bed, which is about four feet off the floor, the hard wood floor. I don’t know what she landed on or how, but when I got to her, she was already crawling vigorously from around the corner with a look on her face that said, “What? It’s all good.” As though it’s normal to tumble off the edge of a cliff upon awakening and smash to the floor. She is an amazingly good natured child, she just is. Oh well, I fell twice my own height. Look! I’m crawling! I’m happy!
And I’m lucky. So lucky she wasn’t hurt and so incredibly lucky that she’s just so damn upbeat about everything. I hope it sticks as a lifelong personality trait. We should be so lucky.
What was I doing when she fell off the bed? I was gardening. I was right under the window of the room where she was sleeping doing what I do every day while she sleeps, and every single day I hear her wake up and say “DADADADADADA” which is how she always wakes up, and just simultaneously with thinking the thought, “It’s noisy out here today I wonder if I’ll hear Lola when she dadadadas,” I heard the scream. So. The guilt. I’ve been spending tonnes of time in the garden this last little while and it actually looks GOOD. I have about five square feet of weed left in the border, then I have to weed whack down the side of the house and dig up four patches for vegetables. Then I’m DONE. Not done because a garden is never done, but done down to just regular weeding/trimming/maintenance, as opposed to still digging out borders and planting new plants. I will take pictures and post them when it’s finished but it won’t be today because, well, see: flu/bronchitis.
My camera is full of non-uploaded pictures. There are so many of them now that I’m overwhelmed and have stopped taking more until I have time to upload what I’ve already got. It gets to the point where there are hundreds and I can’t ever upload without cropping and adjusting, and if there are more than, say, fifty, it’s an hours and hours long job and I can’t fit it in. I have the garden to do, after all. And the book to work on. And, always, the children to entertain, feed, bathe and train. (We’re still working on the old potty thing, if you’re wondering.) Now I hear suspicious sounds coming from the hallway which are drawers opening and closing, so I must go and make sure no tiny fingers are involved.
Apparently the electrical outlets are only interesting for so long, after all.