frazzled & frumpy

(Original here .) The house is quiet. The only sounds that stir me this morning are sleepy breathing across the hall, chirping birds outside my window, and the heavy, distant rumbling of trucks making their early rounds. Soon enough, the house will wake. It will be filled with shouts and laughter, the ping-ring of video games, and the soft whoosh of the refrigerator door being opened--again and again. There will be arguments and footsteps and, most likely, the bang of toys hitting walls. This is the symphony of my life--the song I've learned to love. But, for now... I can ponder and plan, alone with my thoughts. I wonder about the future, both near and far. I pray for my children, especially those not here. I check my mental calendar, noting appointments and schedules. But, mostly, I write. Stories run through my mind. I greet characters I love. They tell me about themselves, what they want to do, where they want to go. They whisper secrets in my ear and I am grate...

If I ever doubt that the Handy Man loves me, which I don't but, if I did, I would only need to do one thing to reassure myself.  Look in the mirror first thing in the morning. See, of all my skills, (fingernail-growing skills, giving-birth-to-large-babies skills, making-killer-enchilada skills), one I do not have is the waking-up-pretty skill.  It has something to do with my short hair and how I lay on my pillow.  Seriously, my hair can defy gravity in the a.m.  And you know those lines you get on your face from your pillow? Did you know that when you get to be 45 they don't go away very quickly?  Cruel trick of nature.  Throw my glasses into the mix and it's a scary sight. Still, he kisses me good morning and pretends not to notice how hideous I look.  That's true love, baby. This boy looks good every morning.