Dandelion Hunter

I wish that I had more time to write.
Or at least think like a writier. Analyze. Appreciate. Sharpen my senses so-to-speak.
It's gratifying.
Perhaps with the boys back in school? I miss them.

I'm outside doing yardwork. I'm a little more enthusiastic with my new snazzy nitrile purple gloves. I wore out the right index finger on my last pair. And that just wasn't going to work. I'm prepping to mow the lawn. So I carry around this tool that looks like a giant snake tongue with a handle that helps jimmy those dandelions right out. But, unless they're blooming, they're hard to spot. Even the big buggers. They're just green on green. I'm really hunting. Walking like a crazy-lady zig-zagging across the yard with her head down.

And Tyler, who's supposed to be napping, but who is instead attempting to carry on a conversation with me through the open window from his bed on this balmy afternoon. "Can I get up yet, Mahm?" pause "Can I get up yet NOW, Mahm?"

I see the wind lazily toss his gauzy curtains towards his bed giving him that pocket of sunshine and his peek-a-boo view.
"No, Ty, not 'til after I'm done mowing the front."

He asks, "Whatcha doin, Mahm?"
"I'm hunting dandelions?"
longer pause

He knows this ritual. Hunting dandelions. That delicious kid feeling from either (a) picking one to lovingly give to your Mother and she'll make an entire production out of how lovely it is or how sweet you are, or (b) blow like the dickens and scatter those seeds everywhere. (Hence my chore pre-mowing I suppose.)

"But why you wanna do that?"
"I'm pulling them out. They're fun and all. I just don't like them growing in our lawn."
"Oh," he says  "Dang it."

And I know he is bemoaning this loss more for my sake than his. Dang it. Dumb grown-up. She's missing the point. She's missing the fun.

And I think as I spin the mower back and forth.
It's been a week of transitions. New teachers. New school for William. New responsibilities for the boys. And our 13th anniversary.

It wasn't what I was hoping for. Our anniversary. I guess that's because it's been Thirteen years.
"I was going to get you something on the way home, but I didn't"
I cleaned his closet, ironed 1,231 pairs of khakis and organized drawers. Not super romantic either.

We had a nice dinner. A babysitter even. Nice place. Good food. A $10 glass of California chardonnay. I dressed up. Put on make-up. Earrings even.

It doesn't seem that long ago that I longed for the familiarity of marriage. The dependability. The built-in date. A partner. Live-in BFF.
And now look at the dandelions. It's funny what I'd give to be back there. 13 years ago. And blow my fool-head off trying to spread those puffy parachute seeds. All over the place. The swooning. The romance. The butterflies before the date.

But, what do you do?
Dang it.