ignore the mountain of discarded folderol
I didn't get a lot done today, although I made various attempts to get it together. My grocery shopping turned into an oddly-elongated 2-hour odyssey in which I became oddly compelled to Think Ahead – like Labour Day is a freak snowstorm, and if I don't get Blake the right snacks for the first week they'll kick him out of school. (Not after I ironed labels onto his fucking sweatshirt, they won't.) My dental hygienist – who has spent a combined total of 12 years as a Montessori Mom – told me at my scaling not to expect Blake to eat any food at all during the first week. She said that eventually he'll get the hang of packed lunches, but until then make sure to cook a good dinner.
I'm also irrationally afraid that his teachers, much like his teenaged swim instructors of this past summer, will be unable to handle The Blake Experiencetm. I like to remind myself that they chose to deal with 25 3-4 year olds over a number of other exciting career options, and they will surely survive a brush with the Blake.
And it's not so much that I fear for them, because despite my tendency to focus on the gruesome aspects of The Blake Experiencetm in my storytelling, he's not all that bad. I worry about him…because I spend a fair amount of energy trying to keep him happy and fed and hydrated and safe, and the thought of his tender heart out naked in the world makes me dangerously hormonal.
But all of this was about groceries, and my need to make sure that next week runs on auto-pilot because I will have nothing in the tanks for domesticity. Nothing. The first week of school flattens the fit, the experienced, the childless and the happy; imagine what it's going to do to US. It's like the Angel of Death is passing over and because we didn't daub the lintel, all three of us get to die at the same time. Which, as Michelle pointed out in July, might not be so bad.
Other than that, I read 13 months of Pound all in one go (infrequent posting and my unwillingness to use a subscribey service means that I forget to check things), helped the Boy clear out our brushy back yard and start a low-investment compost pile (just leaves, no food), washed my new hair (always traumatic), started a new scarf (out of housewarming yarn), read some more of the Medici book Scherezade lent me (usury = art), and saw the Simpson's movie by myself (contrary to my mother's lifelong warnings, I was not bothered by any creep in particular). A scattered Saturday, but not without its joys. Maybe I'll live to see the next one.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*