If ever a paper line looked wistful, it would have to be the Cosmo Cricket Fleurist line. I have actually been able to scrap a little lately- so this blog will go back to having regular projects starting. . .NOW. Woo-hoo! Scrapbooking! Card making!

I have not posted, I know. It is because I have just not been feeling very well, and when you look at all of your posts for the past month and every single post is about how you don’t feel good. . .whine, whine, whine, moan, moan, moan. . .you hit a point where you’re just sick of hearing yourself complain. Now, I could sally forth with the vomit stories and the “my life is now out of control and I hate it” diatribes, but seriously. One can only wax poetic about puke for so long before it just gets dull.

So I stopped. During my non posting days I watched the house grow dust bunnies and my children construct skyscraper like piles of garbage that reach to the ceiling of my home like triumphant effigies of my former control. One morning I laid in bed, very sick and listened to my son explain to my daughter that if they could just get the stove to light they could stick these sticks and grass in there and then bring them outside and have a camp fire in the backyard. I immediately called a friend and had her take the kids. Parenting while sick is one trick, parenting pyromaniacs while stuck in bed is just plain foolish.

The worst day was the day Maggie found scissors and decided to cut her own hair. Her hair was nearly waist long, very blonde from the baby tresses and summer sun, and now it is styled into a shoulder length shag because it was the only way to keep any length at all and hide all of the crazy layers. It is a foot shorter now, and the baby blonde all had to go so instead of white-blonde streaked golden hair, what is left is the color of wheatfields at harvest, which is lovely, but a change. This day I cried for an hour, and they were not little sniffles, they were deep, gut wrenching sobs for the lost hair and for the life I used to have some control over.

Now, I know perfectly well that Maggie is three and that three year olds are notorious for giving themselves home haircuts (Jonas being case in point! TWICE.), and that even the parents who are chic and anal and perfect end up with very butch looking preschoolers. However, at the time, it really just felt like one more thing that was slipping through the cracks. I was far too ill to take Maggie to the salon to fix it, so I called a good friend who not only took her in for her haircut, but who brought with her a family portrait in which her daughter, at Maggie’s age, had cut her hair so short she had needed to buzz all of her hair off to fix it. In the photo she is the only girl in a family of four buzz cut boys, and they sent them out with Christmas cards and said, “Spot the girl!” Humor fixes a lot, and clearly, I called the right friend.

Since then, I have gotten mostly over it, at least over it enough that you can expect to see a layout about it very soon.

Aside from the hair, I’m just moping. I vacillate between wanting to kick someone and walking by my gas oven and contemplating Sylvia Plath. Somewhere in between I’m ok. I’m seriously considering having my tubes tied after this one, or maybe even just having the whole uterus removed, as it is a pain in the butt body part anyway. I’m watching a lot of TV, because when I lose myself in episode after episode of Heros I can stop thinking about everything, and not thinking? I really enjoy the vacation.