Greetings, my fellow port swillers, and Happy Friday!

The most extraordinary thunderstorm(s) rolled through the Port Swiller neck of the woods last evening.   As I went to pick up the youngest gel from swim practice at about 9:15, the sky was positively filled with the most brilliant lightning, seemingly coming from all different directions at once.  And yet, at the same time, it was eerily quiet, with almost no thunder and only a little sprinkling of rain.  (UPDATE: The Capitol Weather Gang got some cool pics.)

The rain set in later on in earnest and only ended after I’d got up this morning.  Wet roads and my very light Wrangler had me humming “Slip-Slidin’ Away” under my breath on the school drop-off runs, as my new commute involves quite a few hills and sharp curves.   Either I’m going to have to use the 4WD more often or else get myself a couple hundred pounds of sandbags, especially with the likelihood of frosts starting in a few weeks.

I mentioned that yesterday was Pajama Day at the middle gel’s school?  Today is Spirit Day.  The school colors are purple and gold and everyone is assigned to one or the other, and so they are expected to deck themselves out in appropriately enthusiastic attire.  The middle gel is on the purple side, so in the spirit of things she went and got herself some purple duct-tape and wrapped up the crutches she’s still on because of her crocked ACL.   Is there nothing duct-tape can’t do?

Perhaps it was the late burst of summah air, but Port Swiller Manor seemed to have lost all concept of Time this ack emma, with various females lethargically drifting about and dreamily wondering what had become of their clothes/shoes/homework/backpack/hair-brush/breakfast/lunch/etc./etc., or simply sitting and staring slack-jawed into space  while Robbo literally danced with frustration trying to get them to get a move on.   We run to a pretty tight schedule when it comes to the morning’s decamping operations, which frequently require the pre-positioning of materials for the afternoon and evening’s activities as well,  and the combination of excessive dithering and past-last second mad scrambling once they actually realize how late it is always makes me stick figurative straws in my hair and start muttering about goddam dog-and-pony shows.  I pray every day for (amongst other things) patience in dealing with my family, but I can’t say that I always receive it.

Another thing that irks Self in the pre-dawn hours is the habit all the gels seem to have picked up of strolling into Mom and Dad’s bedroom and bathroom whenever the whim takes them.  Ol’ Robbo has very old-fashioned ideas about personal privacy and what might be called proper lines of demarcation and gets pretty short with young ladies who wander in on him when he’s standing in his boxers shaving or trying to decide what to wear for the day.   The fault here lies firmly with Mrs. R, who has always had a much more open-door policy.  If we ever win the lottery, the first thing I’m going to do is put in my own bedroom and bathroom with a deadbolt on the door.

Oh, well.  After all the tumult and shouting dies, the captains and the queens depart and everybody gets to where they need to be with what they need to have.   “HeeeventuallEEEE,” as Manuel would say.  I just wish it could all somehow be smoother, calmer, less rushed and more, well, dignified, but I recognize that in this I may as well wish for a pony, too, because I’m just about as likely to get one.   Ah, the felicity of unbridled domesticity.

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