I know they're in there somewhere. Buried under the dirt. Probably playing in it. Ah well. They're being quiet and are out of my hair.
I visit here mostly when I'm happy. When I have a happy memory of my life or day or kids, I want to save in ink (so to speak). But this picture painted here, when you step back and look, isn't the whole truth. Just the pretty stuff. Any online life which only shows the pretty stuff, isn't telling the whole truth. Even if you eat nothing but caviar, it still turns into shit. In every life there is shit. KD or caviar. Maybe shit is too strong a word, maybe just dirt.
Our real lives reflected is 4 people in a lived in house. Me, Mart and 2 boys. I've spent hours cleaning only to have it undone in seconds. With each joyful step they drag dirt in. Don't even mention the dog. I put on my slippers so my socks don't stick to the floor and kick the kids outside to get them out of my hair. Most days we open the front door and kick off our shoes. Somewhere handy to the closet is acceptable. Have a seat on the couch, put our feet up on the coffee table. Watch out for the toys and dishes from last evenings drinks and snacks. Pull the dinky car out from under my butt. I asked them a hundred times to put those toys away... We don't mind the dust bunnies formed from the dogs shedding hair. If we stomp the floor nearby they frighten and move into the corners to hide. They really are more afraid of us, than we are of them. We will coexist until the next time I get a chance to vacuum.
Mom calls Thanksgiving morning to ask that since my photographic brother in law was visiting we should get a "nice family picture in the fall colours". I bristled at this, sitting with my morning coffee still in my robe, sporting the hairdo the pillow gave me. It just felt like work. To get everyone in the house dressed, in clean clothes, at the same time. Stand and smile, outside, without getting dirty on the way (Owen is 5 remember). A chore. That is what I call that. So I didn't' move from my chair, and after a few short words, hung up the phone with mom and finished my coffee.
Why can't we just send real picture of us? These 'nice' pictures really don't reflect who we are. When do you ever see Owen with brushed hair and a clean shirt? Maybe for 2 minutes, between his bedroom and the kitchen, between dressing and breakfast. I have always preferred rubber boots to shoes and even when I try I can't quite manage fancy.
The day before, we all walked down the path through the woods for a picnic. Roasted hot dogs on the fire and drank hot chocolate. Surrounded by fall leaves, highlighted by the crisp fall sun. The bright yellow a dazzling contrast to the dark wet earth of the forest floor. Between stick gathering, fire making and hot dog roasting, Uncle D and his soon to be wife snapped pictures of us. The real us. Happy as can be in rubber boots and coveralls, mud splashed on our play clothes, hair scattered from the wind. Owen may have even had ketchup on his chin. Shady was wet from finding every puddle around, twigs stuck in her fur. He tail never stopped wagging.
The pictures turned out great. I hope the group shot counts as a "nice family picture", because it's the truest family picture she'll get. If mom wants a fancy, perfectly smiling, perfectly coiffed, perfectly perfect family picture, I'll just steal one out of the frame at a store.