Unbeknownst to me, an unnecessary number of furnace men were scheduled to show up at my house today, at the crack of dawn.

I was not informed. I was not prepared. Let the reader understand.


But of course, my two-year-old is always ready for things like this, and happily met them at the door with no pants on, singing at the top of his lungs, “I AM DA WAY, DA TWOOF, AND DA WIFE! I AM DA WAY, DA TWOOF AND DA WIFE!"


That’s zero pants, for the record, and singing the gospel of Jesus Christ, devoid of the full use of the entire alphabet at his disposal to all those who are perishing.


They asked me if i was the tenant. And being the disheveled, mess of a person i generally am at o-dark-thirty in the morning, and having just been awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep, who could blame them? Real, responsible, normal, home-owning adults do not sleep. I know this.

Whilst explaining that i was, in fact, THE actual Mrs. Larson, in the flesh, and not a homeless 10-year-old squatter who had requested their services, said two-year-old pooped on the floor. Just for kicks.


Then the 25 early-rising furnace men shut off the gas, and left.


‪#‎morningswithZeb‬ ‪#‎morningswithfurnacepeople‬ ‪#‎adultingistheworst‬

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I kind of love that my kids always take their shoes off to walk home. Today wanting to feel the cold rain on the warm cement, grounded, and present, and fully alive. As a parent, there is a part of me that wants to call out, “Watch out for puddles! Don’t take your shoes off! Don’t get your pants wet! STOP TAKING YOUR PANTS OFF!” That’s this strange, alien part of me which has crept up slowly over the last almost-decade. It’s the part that really cares about what other random humans are thinking about my personal adulting skills, and the part that is convinced there are probably people hiding in the bushes, just waiting for us, eager for a chance to shake their heads as we walk by with our bare feet, muddy pants, and all that hair everywhere, “What is she thinking?!” or, “You call that an adult?!” Or sure, perhaps they’ve taken the day off, because everyone needs a break now and then, but even on their off days, i’m still convinced there are a few of them secretly still on duty, likely watching us from inside their lovely, immaculate houses as we walk by. Or slowing down as they drive by to stare from their lovely, immaculate cars, all instinctively knowing we left the house today without doing the dishes first, or that our car door has a dent in it that we don’t even care about. But mostly, i just want to take my shoes off too, to feel the wetness on the soles of my feet, to jump in every single puddle with my little humans, to enjoy being here, with them, in this city, on this planet, at this moment, and to be grateful. 

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Monday morning after a vacation is the worst feeling in the world. Even Zeb feels it. Sitting across the breakfast table mourning the mostly full bowl of oatmeal he refuses to eat and absentmindedly muttering over and over in his quivery little voice, “Mommy, i don’t! …I don’t!” and, “Mommy…Mooooommmmmyyyyyy… i want Mommmmyyyyyy…”

  Last night he came into my room in the middle of the night, so exasperated because he had accidentally wet the bed. “Wook.” He said, suddenly inches away from my face. “Wook at dis.” He points to himself. “I. am. sunken. Sunken wet.” Even though it’s 3:48am, i laugh out loud and obligingly help him change clothes and let him crawl in bed with me. He smiles, and kisses my cheek. Then snuggles into my body, and falls back asleep with a contented smile on his ridiculously adorable face located exactly perfect on his ridiculously adorable head. And then my heart exploded a little. 


It’s raining. It’s been raining since we got home two days ago, and the forecast says it will likely be raining for the rest of our lives. But now the older two are upstairs, and it’s just me and Zeb waiting here for the oatmeal to miraculously disappear, and the gentle lull of the dishwasher humming quietly away from the the kitchen has put us in a sort of trance. Zeb is staring into the distance, the rain is falling, the dishwasher is churning, the kitten is sleeping… 

Maybe Monday’s not so bad. Who cares about the oatmeal. 

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