Why is it that when all the interesting things are happening in your life, you have NO time to write? When you actually have time, nothing is happening at all, and you end up writing about the sixteenth time that you cleaned your husband's beard hair out of the sink in one week, or the consistency of your newborn's poop.
I have so, so many things I could write about now, like my birthday, and how my wonderful superstar husband videotaped a bunch of my friends holding up signs that had words on them, describing me, how my three-year-old wondered out loud what he could get me for my birthday and then mused, "I know, maybe some new pants!", how everyone showered love on me, how I felt so happy. I could write about how melancholy I was at the same time, how the thought of another year added to my life makes me think about time and how it brings us along and there is nothing we can do about that.
I could write again about Andy Goldsworthy, about how I think about him every day now, how when I see the gas prices sky rocketing and worry about money (I prefer not to think of myself as having little money, but rather as having a "simple lifestyle") I think of him sitting by himself in the forest pinning leaves together. It is such honest meditation, and something in it calls to something very deep in me, very peaceful. It makes me miss something that is gone when I look for it.
I could write about the journey I'm on right now, in Sacramento, how we drove through vineyards today, how we saw so many friends that we love so much. How all the kids are so big now, and there are just so many, how they spill out of rooms like puppies. I could write about our big day tomorrow at the Whole Earth Festival (and I probably will, later).
But I think I must go to sleep, so all I will write about is this:
One of the best gifts I had on my birthday. YaYa in shorts. Everyone probably has their favorite body parts on their kids. I think with me it is a tie between noses and knees. I mean, look at those knees. You could just eat them.