I had been getting my writer’s mojo back.
And then my son broke his leg.
And we got a pair of kittens.
I learned a long time ago that things never go back to “normal.” Normal is broken legs. And kittens who are so gosh darn cute that you just want to stare at their tiny perfection and listen to their little furry motors all day long. Deadlines be damned.
Normal is car accidents and insurance claims. Jury duty. Spilt milk.
I am 47 years old, and I’ve learned to roll with it as best I can.
We live in a tiny town that has an ice cream parlor. The ice cream is handmade and is really, really good.
This year, they’ve started a new promotion. They advertise a “flavor of the week” for $1 a scoop on a sandwich board in the parking lot. A normal scoop costs about $3.50. The “flavor of the week” lasts for as long as the ice cream does. We have been stuck on S’mores for about two weeks now. Which, surprisingly, is not that great.
Every day I go out, I drive by the ice cream shop to see if there is a new flavor listed on the sign. This makes me happy. I like small town life. I like being in the know. I like this tiny bit of excitement.
I like that the “flavor of the week” could last for a day or a week.
I text W the flavors while she is at work without any kind of explanation or background.
She always texts the same thing back: “?”
Because she is in the middle of work, and I am randomly texting “Graham slam.”
I find her standard response comforting. Comfortable.
So, that’s me. I like simple and same. I like surprises, too. But little ones. Like a scoop of rainbow sherbet for a buck.
Not big ones like, hey, broken leg.
Although kittens are such a joy.
But whatever life scoops out, even a giant bowl of S’mores, I can handle it.