On Being Home

Oh, it's good to be back
and heft my backpack
to the hyundai full of crumbs.

I'm having a good first day back in the routine of getting the kids to preschool and daycare and me to the office.  Clara, having swilled poop water around the upstairs bathroom all weekend (rinsing out her potty: "Ill do it MYSELF, Mummy") conceded this morning to pooping directly in the toilet.  Winton, suffering an addiction to Trader Joe's High Fiber Cereal, pooped odiferously three times, but never once overflowed his diaper.  AND I went to the dermatologist to be told that in fact there is nothing cancerous at all about my skin, despite close to a decade of living on the equator and sunburning myself regularly.  Woo Hoo!

Plus, it's a relief that my trip to Vancouver went well.  My father did indeed want to swim in the Pacific despite air temperatures in the 60s.  And, though my first hours upon arrival involved shopping for enemas for my severely constipated mother*,  she is about as well as can be expected.


*This involved my hard-of-hearing father having a conversation with a soft-spoken pharmacist at Safeway.  Father [bellowing] "What?"
Pharmacist [quietly] "Microlax is an enema, not a laxative, sir.  She shouldn't use this every day"
[coda]


Anyway.  I'm at my desk.  My computer (as always after being shut off) is working about as fast as a glacier,
but I could sing with contentment . . . which means I am in full-on denial about the meeting I am supposed to lead on Wednesday morning and haven't prepped for and the syllabi I have not even started for the classes commencing Aug. 30.