One Saturday in the park. That blob on the right is Miranda, who is no longer cooperating for photos.
You'd think she was unloved because of the scarcity of pictures I use of her. That, and the fact that I talk about her sister Sam so much more. Nothing could be further from the truth because Miranda is like a life line for me. However, out of respect for her privacy, not to mention her lack of cooperation, my writing focuses more on Samantha than on Miranda. She likes it that way.
Sam doesn't care. Being mostly unaware of my writing, she doesn't get a say. Plus, people who are older than five and will run outside stark naked don't get to plead modesty or self-consciousness.
So out of the blue the other day, Miranda blurts out, "We are a strange family!"
"Well...yes," I replied.
We are. I know it. I'm not comfortable with just anyone coming into our home and observing our strangeness. Some people I don't mind, those people who take everything in stride and don't judge.
Speaking of strange, Mick is recording a play-off game, Blazers and the Suns, that he may watch at midnight when he gets home. That has thrown off our Thursday night DVR schedule, which is the busiest night of the week: Vampire Diaries, Bones, and the Project Runway finale. When my mother reads this she'll think, What?
Anyway, Miranda decided that the only thing to do was watch Bones in my room, in my bed. Sam was there, too, and I was getting ready to (at long last) take a shower and get in my pajamas ( Thursday? Today is only Thursday? I long for Fridays.) So I laid down on the bed with the girls for a few minutes, half-undressed because I truly was on my way to the shower.
Sam and Miranda were kind of cuddling and I joined in. Sam loves to be tickled and because of her sensory issues, she likes to mess with people. Yes, I know that's vague, but her messing with a person ranges from squeezing a butt cheek to sticking her eyeball against the other person's eyeball. I was stretching a little as we lay there and touched the bottom of my foot.
"We have to get that hot tub fixed again," I said, "my callouses on my feet are getting out of control." I picked at my foot for a minute and then said, "Hey, Sam, pick Mommy's callous off." And I held my foot out to her.
She picked up my foot with great interest and focused immediately on the problem area and began to pick with great skill. Picking is, after all, her area of expertise.
Miranda and I continued to chat until, "AAARRRGH! Sam, don't bite my foot!" From the corner of my eye I see her mouth grinning around my foot, then she releases it, spits callous into my bed and giggles.
Miranda is beside herself, laughing until no sound emerges. I join in. My foot throbs little. My dental floss dropped somewhere in that bed. Mick will probably discover it tonight.
Just another night.
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