DisbeliefEmma told me she has four days of school left. FOUR. The math is a little fuzzy because there are really two weeks of school left. If anyone ever tells you that American students go to school for 180 days out of the year, don't believe them.
Still. I can't wrap my mind around my little baby girl who just came home from the hospital wrapped in a pink blanket a few days ago having four days of high school left.
RageThat is the feeling you get when you plant fragrant and cheerful petunias in pots and put them on your front steps and then you see a squirrel on its hind legs, munching the blossoms off the plant.
In a mean spirited and spiteful reaction, I sprinkled red pepper flakes down the squirrel's hole. And I didn't use the feeble red pepper flakes that have been languishing in my spice drawer. I bought new potent stuff.
I hope the squirrels suffer. I hope their eyes water and they sneeze. I hope they pack their bags and move away.
SuspicionI heard an Adele song on the radio. Apparently still basking in the Mother's Day season, the announcer said, "And there's a song from the ultimate mother, Adele."
Did he mean ultimate as in most remote in space or time? Last in a progression or series? Incapable of further analysis, division or separation?
I started to suspect that ultimate doesn't mean what the radio announcer thinks it means.
OverreactionEmma came home around 3:00 in a state. She said she was going to fail her classes and BYU would probably change its mind and not let her go after all. She said she had so much schoolwork she'd never possibly get it all done. I told her it would likely work out.
At 4:25 she said, "I'm going to go take a nap. Will you wake me when it's time for dinner?"
"What about all your work?" I asked.
"Oh," she said, "it didn't take as long as I thought it would."
DelightI'm the only one around here that ever cracks the Yale Alumni magazine open and that is only to read the personal ads at the back.
Yale hippie goddess with baroque tendencies. I have no words.