So now that we’re back in our house, Mister Bubby can no longer take the bus to school.  I am still mourning the end of the all-kids-on-school-buses era.  Back in September when the fire was raging, my next-door neighbor said that she would be happy to take MB to school with her second-grader, once we were moved back in and all.  So I went to see her yesterday, since I hadn’t really spoken to her since the fire, and fortunately, before I was able to bring up carpooling, she let me know that they are now homeschooling.  Good for them!  Not as awesome for me, but that’s neither here nor there.

So this morning was my first morning of having to get everyone ready and driving MB to school and getting back before the other kids’ buses came.  Princess Zurg is not quite of the legal age to be left alone at home, but she will be in April and I say, close enough for horseshoes and close enough for me.  Big talk for someone who has a file in the Department of Human Services Child Welfare office, but I live life on the edge, what can I say?  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  So this morning I got up circa 6:45 (ungodly hour!), woke MB and Elvis and PZ, fed MB and Elvis, woke PZ again, made lunches for MB and PZ, woke PZ again, got Elvis dressed, woke PZ up for real, woke the baby from a sound sleep (Nooooooooo!), piled the youngest three in the car and drove MB to school.

It was early yet, but when I got home PZ still couldn’t find her backpack, and I couldn’t find her backpack, and we looked everywhere and eventually determined that it must be in the back of her father’s car.  Oh, well.  Then Elvis’s bus showed up, but Elvis had already taken off his shoes and socks, so I had to put them back on him and put him on the bus, and by then PZ’s bus had arrived, and I sent her to school with her father’s Oregon Ducks knapsack, or whatever manly word they use for it, heaving a huge sigh of relief as I went back inside and locked the door behind me.

I would take a nap right now, but that would probably be wrong.  Morally, I mean.

I think I have been posting my New Year resolutions on this blog ever since I’ve been having New Years on this blog, but I’m not so inclined to do it now.  Probably because the ones I posted last year, well, they pretty much fizzled out in February.  I don’t even remember what they were, which indicates that I have repressed the memory of my failure to keep them.  I know that I intended to read the Bible straight through, which I’m still sort of working on.  I’m in Exodus…thirtysomething.  The others I have no interest in looking up because they were obviously just as ill-considered, if not more so.

I’m headed off to the Target this morning to buy storage boxes because now is the time when they are all on sale, and I need some.  NOT because I am making a New Year resolution to be more organized.  I have given that up as a lost cause.  I will never be organized, just as I’ll never be a minimalist.  I’ve decided to embrace the chaos.  I’m just embracing it in storage boxes.  And I’ll complain about it regularly, but I have no intention to do anything about it.  Just so you’re aware.

I think that this year I will resolve to finish my novel.  That isn’t too ambitious, right?

Also, I want to start playing the piano again.  I had to fill in at church a couple weeks ago, and I realized that I had not so much touched a piano since the fire, and also I realized that playing the piano is not unlike riding a bicycle, if you don’t mind falling off your bicycle a lot when you start riding it again after the fire.  Once upon a time I thought I would be a professional musician.  Oh, that was years ago, a dream long since corrected, but still–I used to play really well, and I’d like to play well again.  I’d at least like to try to play well again.

My husband has a resolution to lose weight, as does Princess Zurg.  Before you become concerned that my nine-year-old has a body image problem, let me reassure you:  she doesn’t have a body image problem, and she really does need to lose weight.  You have no idea how it pains me as a mother to say that.  I’ve been concerned about her for a couple of years because she’s always been on the upper end of “normal,” but in the last few months she has put on quite a few pounds, and she has left typical-nine-year-old behind.  I’ve just never wanted to be one of those mothers who says, “Now, dear, do you really think you should eat that?” or otherwise nags her daughter about her weight.  It’s just so Lifetime television.  Part of my concern is that the Zoloft is exascerbating the problem, and yet she is outgrowing the dose and we need to increase it.  Unless she keeps putting on weight and not getting better, in which case we need to try something else.  The miracle drug of last resort is one that definitely causes weight gain, and I don’t want to put her on that if I can possibly help it.  She has enough problems without adding “fat” to the list.

Well, I have a baby to dress and take to the store before Elvis gets home, so this will have to do.  Ciao, amigos.

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