Yesterday I took frozen blueberries out for our morning oatmeal, and the freezer smelled like caramel hickory smoke, and I furrowed my brow trying to remember when I barbequed something because I didn't remember having any leftovers.
Reaching into the fridge for milk, I saw the bottle of sauce, topsy-turvy, spilling out it's spicy love all down the back of the fridge, pooling in the bottom around the crisper drawers. I wondered what is the best way to clean something like that. But I couldn't wonder long because I had to get things together for the classes I teach in our Friday homeschool co-op.
I looked around at the kitchen and made a mental note to never leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight, and then I remembered that I needed to wash my hair and get the kids ready early, since I had a meeting to attend about our assessment testing before our co-op started, and my heart revved up and my pits started getting sweaty at the thought of getting it all done and being on time.
And the dog was out of food and a friend's daughter was coming over after co-op to spend the night, so I had to get to the store and back before it was too late.
Rush, rush. Yell, yell, fret; run, run.
Such an ordinary Friday for us.
Then I remember how things used to be, long ago, when I would go to work on Friday and just be glad that the weekend was here, but there were no little feet to hurry along, no young ones watching my every move to see how to act, how to react, how to live.
And I know that I like this new and improved ordinary.
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