My teenagers have a teenage boy over spending the night. No matter what I threaten, they are unable to maintain any sense of quiet. And their room smells like a can of onion-flavored Pringles, though I am certain we do not have any Pringles in the house.
I want to write a lovely little tribute to my kids (something like this), but instead, I’m obsessed with mentally planning my funeral. I know! What is wrong with me? Well, I attended a funeral a few weeks ago which made me realize that I have some definite ideas about my own funeral and how it ought to be planned. And then this week, a local man died at home quite suddenly . . . as in, his daughter found him dead when she returned home from school. He was fifty.
So, instead of thinking up cute ideas to write here, I think about what songs I want played at my funeral.
Okay, how about this, instead?
My boxwood hedge has a boy-shaped hole in it. All the boys were playing some kind of shoving-tackling game (I believe called “Kill Me”) and someone landed in the hedge right by my front door. I’m not sure my hedge can recover from this sort of abuse.
Tomorrow I’m going to spend the morning scrap-booking. And I hope to eat lunch in a restaurant. Maybe I’ll return my overdue library books. These are my dreams.
(Also, tell me that I’m not the only not-quite-middle-aged woman planning pondering her own funeral.)