I should make it a rule to drink beer.


Because even ONE makes me want to ramble write.


Saturday we had INTENDED to go to Tishomingo State Park with Dan, the kids, Amanda (omg my India Afar Amanda is home did I not tell you? Lucy adores her. It’s meant to be. She has to stay here forever) and her baby boy. It was a spectacularly planned event, one which which had been talked about for at least a week.

And guys, we just don’t do that. We don’t plan shit. Ever. Because as soon as we do, we get lazy or just generally turned off by the obligation of being somewhere and we ruin it.

So we went. The three Steens in one car, everyone else in the other.

We all arrive (we were a little late), and we proceeded to eat a sandwich picnic at one of the tables. I was SO excited. Josh had rented specialty camera lenses for his big boy camera, and I had my new point-and-click. Like a boss. We were READY.

Then, Lucy (who had refused to take a nap) started screaming.

Seriously it was like Jigsaw’s puppet and the squeally pig from the insurance commercials mated and the product was my child. Not only was it an impossibility to walk across the swingy suspension bridge, the whole idea of taking pictures was laughable.

I should have known.

So we came home. Basically we drove like an hour to eat some turkey sandwiches at a picnic table.

Sunday we redeemed our photography yearns, and went out to make lots of pictures.

Happy Monday.

written on Saturday/Sunday night, I would NEVER drink this early. Unless it was a mimosa. Or champagne and it was important. Or no one was there. Don’t you judge me.

 

Things I would have known if I had had a brother

Growing up, I always hated being the youngest. I was very put upon and woebegone and no one understood me. My mother had been the oldest. My dad had been an only child. So I was forced to live the life of a young Mississippi girl who NO ONE UNDERSTOOD (as if anyone could have understood me otherwise).

Above anything else, I always used to want a brother. A big brother. Sometimes I would pretend Stephanie was my big brother because she was so tall, but then she’d do something stupid like be a cheerleader or wear a bra and the illusion was shattered.

I realize now that part of my fascination with the opposite sex (read: boy craziness) stemmed from not really knowing much about boys, having never been around them all that much. I mean, I was around them at church – but let’s face it, church boys are somehow not as alluring.

Therefore, I present you with things I probably would have known ahead of getting married, had I but had a brother:

Boys are gross. Farts and balls and dingleberries gross.

The end.

Perhaps I should thank my mother for allowing boys to be alluring for at least a little while.

Milestone

Max left – just now – for camp.

This is and isn’t a big deal.

It is because while he’s been away from me before – lots – he’s never been away without being with family. Well, there was some boy scout thing. I forgot about that. So I guess it’s not really that big.

When he comes back, though, he’ll be ten.

TEN.

I remember being ten. 1990, yo.

I know it’s cliche and everyone says it, but it’s gone so fast.

Ugh. Well, I’m stepping on territory I need to save for his birthday post, so I won’t continue.

This is how I see him. Chocolate mouth and 3 years old.