>> Tuesday, September 27, 2011
I have faded spots on the knees of my jeans. I went through a phase when they all wore straight through to my skin, days spent on the ground with little boys. My mom said there were years for her when all her jeans had holes in the knees; another of the many marks of motherhood.
I stood at the sink peeling eggs last night. The shells wouldn't come off cleanly, and chunks of the egg crumbled into the sink, holding tight to the shards of shell. There's so much satisfaction with a clean-peeled egg. But what can you do.
I snuggled Axel on the couch with two books before bed, 30 minutes after he should have been sleeping, now that he's resisting his naps. It was dark outside, and I saw the mailman at our door, stuffing our box with a letter, picking up our Netflix envelope. I felt so bad for him, still out on his route this late. I wondered if he'd had a bad day. It was certainly a long one.
This morning I threw on boots over leggings and called it business casual. I got out to the car and noticed a peanut butter mouth print on my thigh, and a tiny hole in the right knee.
(four minutes between email and a meeting -- just write.)