The Scampering Horse

The two year old. Some people refer to this stage of humanity as "The Terrible Twos." I had a different variety before this one of the homo puella adorable  classification. They were sweet and little and turned into whinny three year olds. I thought the “terrible twos” were imaginary. Well, I finally got one that lives up to the well known title. Some of her antics include painting the toilet with purple nail polish, opening of childproof lids and emptying an entire big bottle of baby-oil on the new carpet, consistently screaming in grocery stores, refusing to eat and then eating dirt, and giving my five month baby a razor to play with. I’ve come to the end of patience and beyond. There are, I have learned, several varieties of two year old. I will tell you about the kind that currently resides at my house.     Homo puella efferus  Common name: Naughtybody Homo puella efferus: Latin meaning, cruel or savage girl. Origins: It is difficult to say who

I get overly excited. About people. Some people have posters of Julia Roberts, Colin Firth, or Justin Bieber hanging on their walls. I respect that. But, I don't share it. I've never met a celebrity. They might be pretty cool, but I can't imagine what we would talk about. Don't get me wrong, I like movies. I like actors that are good at acting, and singers that are good at singing. It is neat that people get famous and then the paparazzi makes money off of selling their pictures. I do get insanely excited about people I know. People, this is awkward for me. It is awkward for you, too. I love you.  You normal person, you. I get celebrity level excited about normal people that I know. I see them. Often, I see them frequently. Like every week at church, or every day when I pick my kids up from school. My demographic is difficult to pin down. It ranges. I have a 50 year old woman, and a 5 year old little girl with curly hair in there. There's a mom of 6 kids I am

I have always loved you.  I knew you were wonderful from the start, not perfect Gil, but wonderful. I have loved you as long as I have known you.  I've always liked smart boys with teasing eyes, and a knack for saving a damsel in distress.  I like that you are consistent.  No matter what is going on in my real life, I know I can turn to you and watch how you call a red-headed girl "Carrots" and she takes years to forgive you.  Meanwhile, I am falling in love with you all over again. I am watching you compete with Anne Girl for the top spot in school.  My heart is breaking when you give up your teaching spot at the local school for the girl you love to be closer to family.  You are a good man Gilbert Blythe.  And I like how I never have to think of you any other way.   Thank you for seeing me through high school.  I didn't date a whole lot, and I didn't need to settle because I had you as the standard.   But, now I am married and you are no longer a possibili

I have a gap between my two front teeth.  My dad has one, too.  This makes us inexplicably similar. This is me.   This is my dad. Named Richard Evelyn McNeill.  His mother named him after me. Usually, he signs just an E. I like that the E stands for Evelyn. Richard E. likes words, the way they sound, their origins, their meanings.  And he likes puns. My dad has tools.  A train car full.  The train car lives in his backyard.  He feeds it more tools to ensure it doesn't get hungry. When my dad was a young grown up, and a young married man,  he silversmithed for money.  He created silver and stone jewelry.  He liked turquoise. And squash blossom necklaces. Maybe it is my mom that likes the necklaces.  And something about shadow-boxes. He retired from jewelry making for a living, but some of my best dad memories are making jewelry with my dad at Christmas.  We had a cold room in our brown building that had a sliver smith table, a torch, the stamping supplies, and a lit

I don’t know much about cars.  I know some cars are more attractive than other cars. I know I like cars that don’t cost me a lot of money, and don't break down.  I like it when their blinkers blink and their radios sing to me.  I like it when I can roll down the windows and open the doors without a lot of hassle.  I’m not passionate about their color, their shiny inside enginey parts, or their names.  There is something about cars, though.  It doesn’t matter what the car looks like, the effect of a person being inside that thing is the same.  Our flaws are super-sized. Cars are the magnifying glasses into our souls. I am a car, and I am magnifying your soul. Automobiles are magical.  Bad things get much bigger inside of the vehicle.  Consider:    If you have a bad sense of direction, lets put you in a car, and you will be lost forever.  I f you pick your nose ever, even a little, you will for sure pick it in your car.  If you say bad words, even in your brain, you are

There is an hour around dinner time where the ground crumbles beneath my feet.  It is the hour of tantrums.  It is the hour of tiredness. It is the hour of unreasonable requests. I call it the witching hour. The witching hour has begun. Ian, my adoring husband, usually sees me for three hours everyday.  The first hour doesn't count.  I am in bed cuddling with my baby.  If I have to get out of bed before I am ready, I get cranky.  This means he gets the girls some cereal, and I hope nobody has a crisis.  If we actually spend time together in the morning, it is most likely cranky time. I spend many, many hours throughout the day in a perfectly delightful mood.  We sing, we dance, we create, we explore.  Good times are had by all. Then Ian comes home from work.  Unfortunately, he comes home during the witching hour.  Another hour where my best self is not shining through. The witching hour. It is the hour where I need magic to happen so I can get dinner on the table. I h