Hands like the wind


The wind is having a tantrum outside; howling, spitting and shoving with hundreds of invisible hands. The misty rain is crazy confetti in the sunlight. The house-painters are trying to grapple with wobbly ladders while the wind shrieks about them like a naughty child, tossing leaves and tiny twigs onto the wet paint.

My baby has chicken pox and is sad-sad-sad. She reaches for me and clenches and unclenches her hands while bobbing up and down. She has said a big no to anything on a spoon (story of my life...) and has become very interested in trying to undo the buttons on my top.

And I have burned my finger while taking muffins out of the oven using a wadded up tea towel instead of an oven mitt. It is at that searing, zinging stage where you wonder if the muffins are going to be worth the pain, especially as they were left in the oven long enough to turn an unfetching shade of toasted brown.

And there are laundry baskets piled atop of laundry baskets of clothes that have been weeded out of the girl's wardrobe ready to be cartoned up to keep for the future or to give away. Only, there seems to be a clean box shortage...

And I have three unfinished art canvases looking at me but my inspiration went for a long walk and I am still waiting for her to return and tell me how to finish them.

And I need to vacuum. And re-vacuum the car as it is for sale and four pairs of muddy sneakers traipsed in and out of it when I took some kids from Kenzie's class to gymnastics yesterday.

And there is Janola bathroom spray squirted on the window edges of the bathroom that is waiting for me to come back and attack the grime with a toothbrush.

And there is a batch of soup cooked and waiting to be blended.

And there is wet washing waiting to be loaded into the dryer. And dry washing waiting to be unloaded from the dryer, only there now seems to be a laundry basket shortage...

And and and...and today I am wondering why God made women with only two hands. Oh to be the wind.

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