'Round and 'round we go....

The cold season has hit our house like a merciless wrecking ball. First, my mom was sick, which means my daughter and niece got sick. Then I got sick, then I passed it back to the kiddo. We played hot potato with a head cold, and we all lost. Thankfully, we all seem to be past it now and life has resumed its normal dysfunction.

On a brighter note, the school year is in high swing, fall is unquestionably upon us, and I have about 50 adorable pumpkins in the garden for carving/pie/as-yet-unknown purposes. More on that later, when I can take a minute to figure out exactly what I'm going to do with it all. See you in a few days, and thanks for being patient. :)

You mean I get to LEAVE?!

I'm preparing for a weekend away from my house, husband, and child. Feel free to be jealous, it's ok. I'm almost tired enough to be jealous of myself. I barely know what to think, and I haven't had to pack since I got my stuff together for when the baby came. Four years ago. Are women without a chaperon allowed to travel these days? How very progressive. I swear, I barely remember the rules. Perhaps there's a notice posted in the town square.

In my absence, I expect both The Husband and The Girl to eat too much junk food, stay awake too late, and pretend they like going unwashed just to spite me. Me? I'll be with two of my besties, hanging out in museums and looking sophisticated while shopping for non-souvenir gifts. Then, a giant concert, the details of which I cannot divulge or predict.

It'll be fun, I know, and I'll be selfishly glad to be there with my friends while my family is lonely, hungry, exhausted and dirty at home, patiently (and sadly) awaiting my return. Because that's what they do when I leave, right? It's been so long, I mean when I get home back the grocery store, they appear to have just been having the best hour of their lives. Same thing with tending the garden and just about any time I leave them unattended, which is almost never. I always come in and think, "How sad they must have been without me," and there they are, laughing and rough-housing and playing games. How kind of those two to keep such brave faces on. How will they ever make it through three whole days? Poor dears.

Picture Day

"Picture Day? Already?!" It was the third day of school, and I was caught unaware. Totally. Completely. Off guard.

"Don't they, like, wait to see if kids are gonna drop out first? I can't believe this!" (You'll be surprised to know that my speaking voice is both informal and shrill. I whine a lot. No one likes to hear me talk.)

You're probably wondering what the big deal was. You may say, "Hey, Adrienne? What's the big deal? It's just Picture Day," and then you'll shrug like I'm the crazy one here and your friends will laugh at me. And that's fine. But this is the Big Deal: I hate Picture Day.

When I was a kid (wow, I'm really old), Picture Day went a little something like this:

• Wake up late.
• Remind Mom that it's Picture Day.
• Fake sick so you can go back to bed.
• No dice.
• Watch Mom freak out while you pretend to sleep.
• End up wearing something you hate.
• Cry.
• Beg.
• Get sick for real this time, but have no chance to stay home because you've already cried wolf this morning.
• Be angry for wasting a legitimate illness on a day you already faked Mom out.
• Get driven to school as you sulk in the backseat.
• Cry some more.
• Walk into class late, crying, in an outfit you hate.
• Be first in line for pictures.
• Blink when the flash goes off.
• Spend the rest of the day trying to pretend you aren't wearing your least favorite outfit OF ALL TIME.
• Wait three weeks.
• Hide the tear-stained-cheek, blinking, hair-a-mess, bad-outfit pictures in the bottom of your backpack.
• Try to hold out until after the order date before showing Mom.
• Lose the game.
• Watch as your parents buy as many pictures as they can afford without skipping a utility, then hand them out to everyone they see, even strangers, strangers' friends, and strangers' friends' kids. Also, people's pets.
  

Of course, now it's a little different and she did fine. I even got to choose the background color and give instructions to the photographer, which mainly consisted of short, abrupt sentences like, "Don't make her cry. Don't let her blink. Wipe her nose, for Pete's sake! Do a good job. Eat your veggies." We'll see how well s/he follows directions, assuming The Girl doesn't try to hide the proofs from me.