Mr. Thomas tossed his hat on the side table and slipped off his smothering coat jacket.
“Margaret, I’m home.”
She came out of the kitchen wearing a ruffled apron, her face heat flushed.
“You’re early, Hubert,” she said, offering her pink cheek for a kiss.
“Look what I have.”
She smiled. “What are those, dear?”
Last night, I had a music rehearsal for a wedding this weekend. As a violinist, I’ve had the chance to be at a lot of weddings. And when my kids were gigging regularly with their string quartet, we saw plenty of wedding action. All these weddings take me back to my first wedding when I was seven years old. Keith, my six-year-old brother, was ring bearer to my flower girl. I think it’s many young girls’ dream to be a flower girl. You get your own “wedding dress” and special stockings, and so much primping and attention. Look at that bouffant I’m rockin’!
Remember the nasty, scary pirate in Stardust, Captain Shakespeare? His crew feared him, the hero and heroine were at his grim mercy, and his reputation was impeccably evil? And then after a bit, we find out he’s a cross-dressing soft-hearted romantic?
June 7, 1909, Virginia Apgar was born. Her name may be familiar to you, but probably not because she was a leading female anesthesiologist, surgeon, professor, as well as a gifted violinist and cellist, stringed instrument maker, golfer, fly-fisherwoman, gardener, and stamp collector. Why might you have heard of her? Because her name was probably one of the first you heard uttered the day you were born. She is the woman and physician behind the famous Apgar Newborn Scoring System.
Last night, Spencer and I were looking at some of his scars and reminiscing about old times and many of the incidents involving injuries in our history. I learned pretty quickly to patch up boo-boos to avoid low-priority runs to the ER. After all, I was an RN. I should be able to mitigate some of those issues. Right?
Yesterday, I found out a convicted pedophile has been hanging out with kids of family friends. Now I find myself with this awful dilemma. Do I tell them?
It sounds so simple when written in that one sentence. But it’s so much more complex than that.
Today is national cheese day. Who doesn’t love cheese? It’s on or in everything. What would Olive Garden or Pizza Hut be without cheese? Or Salsa Brava or Chipotle? Or a visit to France? Or Switzerland? Wisconsin? Or your favorite cheese burger place? From the finest Neuchateloise Fondue to Cheez-Whiz, the stuff is everywhere. The only food without cheese that I can think of is from Asia, or India (though Amy’s meals has those really yummy Indian meals with chunks of some cheese in with the spinach). Around the Western side of the world, cheese is ubiquitous.
Mike looked at his watch. “It's late,” he said to his companion in the dark bar. “Jen is getting suspicious. A lot of questions.”
“You had to go and get a wife. In spite of all our training, all the warnings.”
Mike shrugged. “Can I help it if Jen fell in love with me?”
A pretzel stick hit Mike's cheek.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Not of your complications.”
“See you next month.” Mike's chair rumbled against the plank floor as he stood to go.
You may think I was cute at two, but look at that tea party next to me. It’s a harbinger of things to come. Clearly, from the very beginning I wasn’t cut out for a career in the kitchen. I couldn’t even set up a simple child’s tea party. No wonder I’ve set the kitchen on fire.
Yesterday I quit being a writer. It lasted about an hour, hour and a half. But I wholeheartedly truly quit for that time. Then I pulled myself back together and sat myself in my chair and made my fingers start. Putting. Words. On. The. Page. And after a while, I had a new scene written.
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Life with Quadruplets
As a mother of quadruplets, I've had plenty of crazy experiences raising "supertwins." I blog a lot of memories about my kids. Sometimes just my thoughts on things. I get those sometimes—when my brain works. Which is about one third of the time.