From my first folk show at 16 -over half my life ago – to Eddie From Ohio this past weekend, I have been incredibly lucky to be a part of the folk community that does not put barriers and guards between the artists and the fans.
I keep a spreadsheet of ideas to write about, and like most of my organizational efforts it alternates between organized within an nth of its life, and completely forgotten about as I wing it. So when I went to look at the spreadsheet this morning and saw, “That’s Not Lemonade” listed, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know.
I can only assume that the person who designed the house was drunk. Or made a Sims house into reality. That would explain the lock on the outside of my bedroom door, the better to watch me starve with increasingly panicked thought bubbles floating above my head.
We have plenty of beds in our house. Lorelei’s room has a twin-over-full bunk bed, our bedroom has a king-size bed and crib, plus we have couches and a futon. For the last week I have been sleeping with Rowan in the recliner, because we were both getting more sleep that way. Lorelei, never one to sleep in a room by herself, decided to join us. Then Squirt joined in. It was a regular recliner party. Maya was probably just under the foot of the recliner sulking.
In the oft-complained about mommy wars, I am Switzerland. I have opinions, but they swing back and forth between crunchy and mainstream, landing somewhere outside of either.
Me: Lorelei, get your toys or whatever you want to play with outside, and let’s go.
Lorelei: I don’t need any of that stuff, mom. I’m going to exercise! That is my thing that I am going to do every day of this new year!
I am one of the lucky ones. Privileged. I’m reminded of this as I begin a post in which I am going to lament, bitch, whine, and rant about the lack of adequate paid family leave in this country.