My Ordinary Life

The state wants us to file and pay slaes tax. One of our insurance companies wants us to fill out an audit form. I want chocolate.
I’ll soon enough get back to the official forms that remind me I’m over 18, I started a business and that sometimes it’s not the fun part.
Not now. Instead I’ll listen to George Winston, drink a B Monster smoothie and eat small squares of chocolate carmel crunch one at a time, leaving just enough time between each bite.
I made myself a pizza, crust and all, with fresh basil and mushrooms, at 10:30pm last night. While my family slept, I ate with a fork and knife so I could read “Sabbath,” by Wayne Muller and avoid embarrassing tomato sauce smudges. I was honoring an agreement I made with myself when I woke up yesterday, no internet at home for the rest of the day. Otherwise I would have been on my laptop doing nothing in particular, wondering why I wasn’t engaging with the quiet at midnight.
I slept in this morning and ate leftovers for breakfast while my family played Pokemon. I read the sound of people I have to love, grateful I’d love them anyway and that we get to live together.
Later I went out, mailed the water bill, bought a case of water and laundry detergant, returned what I thought would be a turning point book but wasn’t, to the library. “How Babies are Made,” was read and regarded like every other children’s book in our home.
I sat on the kids bed with a boy in pajamas on either side of me, looking slowly from one to the other. Gradually they stopped wiggling and settled in because they knew I wouldn’t read otherwise. We opened to page 1 and I read. In most children’s books there are illogical representations of the subject on every other page. We found funny things to say and laughed easily, unconcerned with how much time it took to get to the end. Fortunately I didn’t let them hear my nervousness as we bagan. Fortunately I have years of practice so read like they always hear. They did get wide eyed at the part where mom and dad are naked in the bed and words tell them what’s happening under the covers.
But I was cool, keeping up giggles, answering matter of factly. And then we read the next chapter in Super Fudge, the chapter that prompted me to check out the informative plain covered purple book, followed by the next chapter of whatever Magic Tree House book we were up to, just like every other night at bed time.
A couple questions have come up in the days since, and they’ve flipped through the pages on their own. Fortunately neither of them responded like Fudge, of Judy Blume’s imagination, who told everyone he met that he knew how babies are made and proceeded to pour forth his knowledge. I don’t even think my kids have told grandma. They probably figure she knows already.
Now the library can put “How Babies Are Made,” back on the shelf, ready for the next nervous parent to check out when their curious offspring wants to know where little sister came from.
I brought the water and soap home, delivered cake to our new neighbor, then headed out to the grocery store cafe. I did keep my priorities straight. Once situated at my press board table, computer plugged in because it only had 9% battery left, I called the state # given on the form telling us to pay sales tax please. I called our insurance agent for guidance on the audit. When the calls were done, instead of running home to get both matters mail ready, I logged on here to witness my afternoon from the place in my mind where written words form.
And before I go home to tend official matters, I’m going to read a while here on OS. I do have priorities.