Ok, nevermind. Everyone's asleep now and I feel better.

I want to remember that I'm not all horrible bad moods right now, but if I ever go back to reread this diary in years to come (or weeks, the way my brain works nowadays), I'll just think I was miserable all the time.

I'm not. I AM boring, though. Just have the kids to write about because I am all consumed with their care and feeding. I want to cultivate other parts of my life. So I'm going to try to remember that here, too.

I went for a walk this mornin by myself and that was glorious. I hate that it hasn't rained in months--we're losing all of our trees--the dogwoods have been the first to go--but lately the weather has at least not been hell hot. At night it gets nice an cool, so early morning walks are perfect.

I have this idea that I would like to start writing some nonfiction. I've never really done that sort of thing willingly, but I want to give it a go. I'm pretty well done with poetry. My life feels too nuts and bolts practical for poetry these days. That's a stupid idea, but it's true. Driving home from work yesterday I was thinking about how much I love country people. Country people are practical and sensible in a way that feels really comforting to me. This is a huge generalization, I'm aware, but I was thinking how country people don't think less of you if you have a spare bathtub (or two) in your yard. Or if your "yard" is just a bunch of dirt and overgrown brush. The only times I feel weird about people coming over is when we get friends who are recent transplants from Raleigh or Durham or California--thems folks I think are extra careful with their little ones around here. Meanwhile our little one is scrambling around naked as a jay with feet hard as old leather peeing in the woods and filthy as can be. Ah well. Country kids are always unshod and dirty, right? Right.