Burro

Feel like a burro, loaded down with a heavy fringed blanket and baskets of wares. Walk downstairs, take the small, stuffed bathroom and bedroom trash cans on the way, to empty them. Clean them with lavender soap--to soften the indignity of the task--while Punchy eats the tuna sandwich that is her quick dinner after 6 to 8 p.m. gymnastics class and longish ride home. Eat cashews instead of dinner. Carry clean trash cans back up. Refill Sug’s water bowl, give the plants a drink. Empty the car. Burro burrowing under covers now. I need Dan to let me roam free for part of tomorrow. But he did do a sinkful of dishes--less on my back, thank goodness. Good night. 🌙 

P.S. I was feeling weary when I wrote the post above, but then burro me buckled under the weight of responsibility. It was just too much. Punch refused to comb the big knots out of her wet hair [again] and we got into a battle after 10 p.m. We both got angry and willful It was the straw that broke the burro’s back. I had grocery shopped, written articles at Starbucks, rushed back w car so Fig could drive to dr. appt, made lunch [sauce, spaghetti, chicken sausage], tried to send work emails from gymnastics studio but lost them twice due to faulty WiFi. On top of that, helped out some friends who were both at work in NYC by watching their son and daughter--Punchy’s friends--from 1:30 until after gymnastics, nearly 9 p.m. And now we have to get up at 7 for a busy day. Hello, blowout and pedi? Missing you.