Our house, about 2 this afternoon. Mo is dancing with Flat Daddy, Abby is reading a book with the Creeper close at hand, Mira is patting juice on the table, and my darling Mr. M is doing the dishes. ‘Caus that’s how I roll.
It’s Friday, things are mellow, and other than the Lite Brite pegs in the dishwasher ($$ we don’t have; thank you Abby) all is well. Or at least what I’ve come to accept as well. We are not sick, we have our home still, we have no job, but we’re kind of getting used to it, and that’s it’s own kind of scary. Poor is the new Black. Or something.
And yes, I realize our version of “poor” is a far cry from real, bone-numbing poverty. We have food, water, shelter, clothing, faith and love. We also have the priveledge of paying a repair man $100+ to have him fix the Lite Brite peg-filled dishwasher motor, which some would argue is not a need at all, to which I would challenge them to a duel at dawn. That’s a long, long way from the poverty that grips souls the world over. And I am grateful for that grace.
So Friday night finds us at home. David is taking Beanie to the store to splurge on a piece of watermelon, which Bean has been craving, and we’re have leftover carnitas tacos for dinner. We’ll probably catch a movie on the couch, and be in bed by 9. Happy Friday.