Stealing a moment.

Oh man, this whole blogging thing is really not fitting into my already cramped lifestyle. I’ve got this fancy notebook that I keep lying around so I can capture what I like to call “random creative thoughts” as they strike me. It works well when I’ve got a pen handy and I happen to be standing near the notebook, but like yesterday, I was sitting in the back of the tractor cart with the tree three monkeys as my husband drove us around potato fields in an attempt at Family Fun Time, and I started forming this hilarious post in my head. This was some seriously funny shit, but by the time we reached home, I piled everybody out, washed and put away the stolen free potatoes, I had forgotten it. This happens all the time. It drives me bonkers. I’ll crack myself up with a peculiar anecdote or incident that I’m sure my 25 loyal readers would just love to hear about, but before I’ve got time to jot down the brain vomit, somebody’s pooped their pants and I forget about it. I’m trying to get better at this writing thing, seeing how this is what I want to be when I grow up. I really need to start devoting actual time and energy to it.

But the good news is I finished a book today. Yeah, I actually had time to read an entire big girl book, and it didn’t have any pictures in it. The damned thing’s been on loan to me from my sister for, oh, a year and she’s probably wondering when the hell she’s getting her book back. Sis, I finished The Bitch In The House, so after I engross myself in evaluating my own marriage and level of personal happiness, I’ll bring it back!

My first-born daughter, the one who taught me to be completely unselfish, turns eight today. Eight years old on September 8. That’s your Birthday of a Lifetime you know. I recall turning seven on the 7th. We were poor. Dirt poor. But somewhere between hand-me-down corduroys and free hot lunches, my mother managed to make that birthday very special. I hunted all over the house for my presents because she cleverly hid them while leaving clues to help me along. The cake was homemade and grand, and the second-hand board game of chutes and ladders was the coolest thing I’d ever been given. Funny how we remember childhood events through adult eyes. I wonder how my own daughter will remember today. Did she feel special? Did she get everything she wanted? Were the cupcakes just how she liked them? There will be roughly 25 energized children in my house tomorrow to help her celebrate, and despite my leaning towards being in a drunken stupor throughout the entire thing, I think it will be fun. I mean c’mon, how much fun is it to grab a broom stick and whack a hanging box stuffed with candy? Is eight too old for pin the tail on the donkey? Maybe I should get creative and design my own pin a brain on George W. Bush game. I’ll send those darling children home with a political rant that’ll spin their bible thumping parents’ heads clean off. No, honey, we can’t go back to your friend’s house, the devil worshipping liberal lives there, remember? It’s no wonder we haven’t any friends around here.

This is all the prattling on I could fit in the last ten minutes of Papoose’s nap. I gotta find that notebook.