Right now every closet in my house is embarrassing, as are 85% of all other closed spaces, including but not limited to drawers, cabinets, the entire basement, Tom's work room, and the refrigerator. "Junk Drawers" prevail.
Right now I am stopping myself from lamenting about the piles of laundry looming large in all corners of the house because I'm quite certain the world is sick of hearing about me complain about laundry.
Right now the boys are in the dining room playing with modeling clay that was today's gift in the advent calendar my mother made them, while Sena sleeps still. Maple sausage is in the oven, and coffee is burning in the pot, and I know I should get up from the computer because things just aren't working out with the photos I'm trying to edit for friends who need them for Christmas cards. Meanwhile I just keep going back to this picture of my children. Disheveled, disinterested children.
I wonder if scruffy can be considered an aesthetic because I'm pretty certain it is my favorite way for children to look, even while worrying that onlookers worry that my children are unloved and uncared for. Why doesn't their mother brush their hair? For the past few weeks Arlo begs to wear his water shoes in lieu of actual shoes. Sometimes I let him. Because it amuses me. Sometimes I force boots on him. It's getting cold outside.
Arlo = the Dude, so that's not your fault. You can't fight destiny. It's already clear he'll love White Russians
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