So, after a string of 100-degree days, here we are at a relatively chilly 90 degrees. The difference ten degrees makes is phenomenal. You can walk outside and not feel like you're about to burst into flames, for one thing. Lovely.
It's 2:29 in the afternoon, and so far it's been a good day. Jack's been reading, Will's been playing with the dog, now they're both playing with the Wii and being quite friendly to one another. Yesterday they were shrieking and pestering, and I thought a little hari kari might be in order for the three of us, just to put us out of our collective misery.
But today we are friends. I've read, cleaned, done arts and crafts, and prepped for dinner (we're off to the pool later in the afternoon, and it's so nice to come home and not have to start dinner from scratch). As I was reaching into a cabinet for a bowl to hold chopped veggies and found exactly the bowl I like, a little clear bowl that's the perfect size for the job I was doing, I thought about what Martha Stewart gets right: she reminds people that the domestic life can be lovely and creative. There's an art to it. There's beauty involved. For so long domesticity has been mocked and discounted and looked down upon. But anyone who practices it knows that skill is involved, art and craft.
Martha knows that. She gives it to us in its most idealized version, yes, and just once I wish MSL would do a spread on some working class person who keeps a beautiful home (it's always rich people with ridiculously well-appointed houses that you find on Martha's pages). But at least Martha recognizes that the work so many of us do is important and good and at times very, very satisfying.
I'm a writer and a stay-at-home mom who keeps meaning to mop the floors because I think it would make me happy if I did. I love books and music and writing, spend entirely too much time in the dentist's chair (I bet I have more crowns than you do), and used to think I was sort of bohemian, but now I wonder. No tattoos. Minivan. That story.