Cloudy

I'm done posting pictures of rainbows and telling stories about the unicorns that live in my barn, and making you gag by lying about how incredibly amazing and wonderful my life has been since the day I had kids. Or do I not do that? Because, yeah. That's really not how it is.

I'm half-tempted to lock this blog down to public readers. Why do I write it? Why do I share my pictures? Who is it for? I'm not sure. Most days I question whether I'm emotionally stable enough to be writing here.

{deleted paragraph where I did nothing but make excuses}

Yesterday's sunrise screamed that the weather was about to change. Bipolar weather. It rained while the sun was shining, snowed briefly, rained, then snowed for ten minutes again. All within half an hour. Fitting.

This morning after the first grader was on the bus, the half-sized cats kicked back outside, the first fire put out fight between the two little kids deferred until later resolved, and the laundry folded... it's not even 8am and there isn't any laundry piled in the living room.

HOORAY!

Anyway, this very strange orange glow caught my eye out the window. Like fire all around.

It looked so weird. There was a heavy bank of clouds and a tiny space where the sun was shining straight across the earth beneath them. Sideways light to the direction the snow was falling. And brilliant fire orange.



That might look like a normal sunrise, but it was long after that sunrise color usually fades.

So it's snowing. Not that it's going to stick around for more than a day or two, but, technically it is snow. I still have to clean out my garlic and plant my chicken coop.

No.

Plant my garlic and clean out the coop. And pull that rag out of the side of the house and squirt some of that expanding foam stuff in there instead. Luckily the hole is too high on the wall for my birds to reach, because:

True: Chickens eat styrofoam and dried expanding foam if they can get to it.

Why?

Their brains are the size of peas. Small peas. I think.

Embarrassing confession: I found my missing camera remote, the one I spent two months searching for. It wasn't in the top of my bedroom closet with that fancy elusive ax. It was in...


well,


I laughed at myself when I found it, because...


I was sure it couldn't be the missing one (for seriously?)


except that it was all scratched up,


like the old one,


so it was pretty immediately obvious that I'm an idiot.


I reached into my camera bag to grab a tube of chapstick for a kid while I was driving, and came out with the remote in my hand. My kids grandmothers: we were going like two mph on a gravel road with no one else in sight, don't freak. The kid laughed. It makes perfect sense that my husband stole it, strategically waited until I'd purchased new ones, and then planted it back in my bag.

Right?

Sometimes I wish I was that delusional.

56. Enough pockets in a camera bag.
57. Three remotes.
58. Chapstick.
59. Sunrise.
60. A chicken so funky the furnace guy asked, "WHAT is that?"
61. Successful attack on the laundry, despite help from The Bean.
62. French toast made from homemade cinnamon bread.