It’s just before midnight, everyone else is asleep, and I’ve been raiding the refrigerator because I’m hungry. Apparently doing nothing burns a lot of calories. This afternoon my sister introduced me to honey roasted nuts, and I could have sworn she said they were in the kitchen, so I just spent five minutes quietly opening cabinet doors in search of this glorious snack made by unicorns. Well, they ended up being in the pantry, in the last cabinet I opened. When I saw them, I felt like I won the lottery, but what I actually won was another reason to be grateful for stretch pants.

Puh-TAY-toe, puh-TAH-toe.

I just put the honey roasted nuts back on the shelf. I was eating so many, I decided it was either put them back or call a help line. When I walked into the pantry, I noticed the shirts I washed and hung up to dry yesterday. There are six of them, and all of them are gray or black. With a couple exceptions, that’s pretty much been my color palate for the last year. Yesterday my sister and I talked about my current minimalist wardrobe, and today she told me I had what’s referred to as a capsule closet. A capsule closet is apparently a collection of limited clothing (tops, bottoms, etc.), all of which match and coordinate. Well, obviously, gray and black go with everything.

By everything, I mean my one pair of jeans.

I spent this afternoon mostly in the car with my sister, running my nephews around. For being so young, they sure have a lot to do. I guess part of the problem is that Christopher’s charter school is a twenty-minute drive. My sister says he usually doesn’t like to talk about his day, that getting information out of him is like pulling teeth. My parents have voiced the same complaint about me over the years, so I said, “You should give him a couple of scotches. That’ll make him talk.” Well, he wouldn’t shut up today, probably because he lost his watch at school (he has a habit of taking it off) and was hoping he could avoid a lecture by throwing my sister a conversation bone. So for twenty minutes he went on and on about music class, witches, and–I don’t know–cooties. This whole exchange taught me two things–1) seven-year-olds are smarter than we give them credit for, and 2) as smart as they are, they really have very few interesting things to say.

Of course, two-year-olds aren’t any better. They repeat themselves–a lot. This afternoon Ander kept saying, “Now? Now? What about now?” I recently told a friend, “If you want patience, be a dance instructor,” but I should have said parent.

If you want patience, be a parent.

Tonight before bedtime, the boys and I played outside. Christopher wanted to sword fight with plastic bats, but I somehow ended up with a plastic golf club. Talk about being an awkward pirate. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I would have won, but Christopher ended up reaching for a water gun–and using it–on me. So I got soaked, but since I’m bigger than him, I took away the gun and returned the favor. My sister said, “When kids scream and say, ‘Don’t shoot me,’ that means they want you to shoot them.” I don’t know where she discovered this parenting wisdom, but both the boys did seem to be delighted when I covered them in water. In retrospect, I think my sister just said what she did so she wouldn’t have to bathe them tonight.

When we came inside Christopher wouldn’t let me in my room (actually, his playroom) until I said the secret password, which I ended up guessing after he gave me a few hints. It was “cheese block.” Go figure.

Also, now I’m hungry again.

Yesterday I started reading Theft by Finding by David Sedaris. It’s his latest book, a collection of his diary entries over the years, and over five hundred pages. I have tickets to see David next week in Arkansas and am trying to finish the book before then, even though I’m sure he won’t mind if I don’t. Still, I’m a hundred pages in (and fascinated). Anyway, since everyone went to bed, I’ve been reading, David for a while, then a book on writing that David mentioned. (Clearly I have the attention span of a two-year-old, as I’m constantly starting new books before I finish old ones.)

When I reset my wardrobe last year, I told myself that I was sticking to grays and blacks because they’re neutral and it felt like I needed a fresh start. Subconsciously, I think I’ve stuck with those colors because I’ve been in mourning. A huge part of my life is over, and I guess it feels like a death. It’s good, I think, since that part needed to die. You can’t play small forever. Still, since whatever’s coming next hasn’t fully presented itself yet, my interior atmosphere is often solemn–lighter than before, but solemn nonetheless. Perhaps deep is a better word. I suppose it’s been like this for a while, but I notice it more when I’m around children. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to be silly and not steer the conversation toward self-improvement.

Of course, seven-year-olds would rather talk about their farts.

I don’t imagine farts will ever be my go-to conversation. I seem to be wired for things more serious, like, How do your farts make you feel? I’m okay with that. Still, I love my nephews for reminding me that life is meant to be fun. Today I wore a pink shirt, and that too reminds me to lighten up. Once I had a spiritual teacher hold my hand and say, “There’s nothing serious going on here, I can promise you that.” At the time, I hoped they were right. Now, I really am starting to believe it, that the world isn’t as bad as I thought it was, that I can improve without being so intense or in a hurry, and that I can come out of mourning anytime because the sun rises each new day.