Marlena was upset about not being able to start school the first day, so she was mopey yesterday. It didn’t help that I woke up with a cold, so instead of being able to visit the park and run around, she was pretty much left to her own devices at home all day.

Luckily, Daddy saved the day with a special gift when he got home from work.

Suddenly, not being able to start school for a few days simply didn’t matter.

(No, I have no idea what the lawnmower like noise in the background is, might be our air conditioner, or it might be coming from a neighbors yard. Whatever it is, I apologize for it’s incessant drone.)

Boy was she happy to be scooting. She is getting really good at it. She is already able to ride several feet with both feet on the board, and is happy to show off her growing talent to anyone who will watch her!

As a paranoid mommy, I did park my car between the driveway and the street before letting her scoot. We live on the main street in and out of town, and it is always busy. I am so nervous about her playing on anything with wheels anywhere near the street. I think having a roadblock weighing several thousands of pounds might protect her from entering oncoming traffic. It wouldn’t stop her if she chose to intentionally go around it, but it will prevent her from accidentally shooting into the street. Of course my neighbors thought I was nuts when I pulled the car around and proceeded to parallel park it in my driveway, but so what? (I am nuts, though not about this, I feel this particular paranoia is based solidly in common sense.)

When I was small, my hands would dance before my face, practicing new motions, working new muscles. My hands would grasp the hands of my mother and father, the toys they brought to me, the food they taught me to eat. My hands were the gateway to everything I tasted, the tools that gave me everything I saw. Well, everything within reach anyway.

When I was a young girl, my hands played with my brother’s hands, and they dug in dirt, and danced to the tune of childhood. They would throw and pat, rip and build, dig and cover. They were constantly shifting from dirty to clean, as my mother fought off germs with soap and water, often muttering in frustration.

When I was older, my hands would struggle to keep up with my body’s growth and changes, and would try and hide the awkwardness that would shoot from me at unexpected moments. My hands were often covered in scrapes from trying to catch my many falls, and often covered my mouth to prevent me from saying “something stupid.”

When I was a young woman, my hands would pull my hair from in front of my face, would linger on my cheek, would dance the dance of new-found awareness. They were my front lines in my exploration of love, communicating things I didn’t even understand to the people around me. They were strong, and lovely, still so new that their skin was clear of any marks.

When I became a woman, my hands became the tools by which I earned a living, providing me with a new found independence. They danced the dance of sweat and syrup as I scooped tips off my emptied tables before wiping them down. They typed up notes and exams, learned languages, and carried the books that promised me the future. My hands wore the symbols of the promises I made to another, a ring, some burns from my first painful baking attempts, all the steps from the dance of mating.

When I became a mother my hands touched the heads of my children as they came into the world. Slimy, warm, and solid, the touch and feel of life grown inside me, pushed into the world by strength of will, hands gripping hands all the while. My hands were grasped by the small dancing motions of my babies’ hands, as the ballet began anew. Small perfect fingers wound around my hands, tracing the delicate wrinkles forming as their duties grow. My hands wiped up spit up, changed diapers, and introduced food and toys to my children. They still do. My hands dance the dance of domestic life, sometimes messy, often hard, always worth it. They are the tools I use to teach my children about the world they have to navigate, my hands hold tight as I lead them from one step to another. At times, they are eager to grasp too tightly, but slowly they are learning when they have to let go.

I watch my mother’s hands now, as she watched her mother’s before her. I see them, these hands that have now danced this ballet twice, and think how lovely they are. I am proud to know my hands were taught this dance by hers, and will dance this ballet with my children, and my children’s children. Proud to know that my hands will carry the knowledge of creating and caring for life, and will pass these steps onto to the dancers of the future.

Lee sent me this to brighten my day, and I love it. I hope you do to. If you want to see this comic at it’s original location, go here.

While watching Without a Trace, I saw an ad for an RLS medication that had one of the oddest side effect warnings I have ever heard. “If you experience increased gambling, sexual, or other intense urges, contact your physician.” Increased gambling? As a side effect? Eep. What kind of medication is it, to cause an intense desire to gamble? Is the reduction of RLS symptoms really worth potentially gambling your future away?

Today was hectic, we got all the school registration stuff done, ran to the doctor for her physical, and got the transfer papers together. However, she will not be able to attend the first day of school tomorrow, as they will not be able to process her in time. They will call us to let us know when she is able to start. (More “vacation” for me! I muttered through a teeth clenching smile.Yay!) Sadly, the person who gave Lee the registration paperwork two weeks ago told him we had to have the medical info taken in with it, while today we were informed we could have registered weeks ago, and taken the medical info in later. If the person who initially dealt with us had been correct in their advice giving, we would not be sitting here waiting to get her into school at the last minute. Argh.

Because we spent the day running around like mad fiends, we were all cranky and tired when we got home. In an attempt to revive myself, I made Beer Bread. My first recipe attempt had too much beer, and didn’t fully cook, but the second was successful, resulting in yummy yeasty bread for my Peach Pie Jam. The loaf may or may not be here to comfort and revive others when they arrive home from their hard and hectic days.(mmmmm…..beer you can eat. Licking crumbs off plate.)