Me, too!

Oh, Miss Etta, my children did the same thing with the baby powder!
It's a memory that has become a bona fide family legend and a prized
picture to boot. There we were, working in the kitchen one fine day
when my daughter (who had just learned to walk) motioned for my boy
(who had just learned to crawl) to follow her, and out they went on a
sibling adventure. I breathed a sigh of gladdened gratitude:
gladdenment 'cause it made my heart smile that they were bonding and
enjoying each other and gratitude 'cause I was gonna' have a few
minutes by myself in the kitchen. (Looking back on it, that would've
been a fine time to try some of your Kahlua-nog.)

But there wouldn't've been time 'cause as it turned out, there
weren't nearly enough blissful minutes that had elapsed before I did
just like you did: I noticed the quiet, sensed trouble, and let me
tell you, I didn't have to go very far at all to find it. Just down
the hall in daughter's bedroom there they were, just like you found
your children: both of them covered in white powder. Only way I could
tell the children from everything else in the room was from the
giggling. When I said something and let them know I was there, my
daughter turned around, smiled from ear to ear, and raised her hands
triumphantly. The boy was sitting in the rocking chair giggling
delightedly. They were powerful - or should I say POWDERful? Not only
had they made snow, they'd made it in the middle of July. And without
their mama's help or intrusion, whichever the case may be.

After the photography session ended, I took 'em outside and let 'em
run through the sprinkler to get cleaned up. (Don't remember a single
thing about cleaning the room, though. It's nice the way my brain
takes such good care of me sometimes by remembering only the good
things and dropping everything else. More and more, though, it seems
to be putting darn near everything in that dropping-off pile.)

Isn't it funny the fine line that separates quiet of the pleasurable,
highly-prized, never-get-enough variety from the oh-no-trouble's-
brewing variety? I guess you're right: it can't be anything but that
inexplicable and aren't-we-glad-we-have-it-even-if-they-wish-we-
didn't-and-by-the-way,-it-never-goes-away Mama Radar that can tell
the difference. It's a forced to be reckoned with, I tell you. It is,
it is.

Y'all ever make snow ice cream? That's the only thing I hate about
dodging these weather bullets: I miss my snow ice cream. Found some
in the grocery store. Mayfields. (The ice cream brand, not the
grocery store.) It's good, but not nearly as good as fresh homemade
snow ice cream. (Some say I oughta listen to the politicians and not
eat any snow that comes from a globally-warmed sky carrying toxic
waste and other things that are bad for you, but hey.)

Now that my chillun are grow up and moved out, I think I'll go in
search of some Kahlua and enjoy a few quiet minutes this fine afternoon.

Or maybe some julep juice.

Either one'll do.

Till next time,

Miz Vul