My goodness, I have decided that I really hate the phrase “new normal.”

However. It is kind of just that, right?

We get up; we do school… we play board games and learn how to bake things (Blonde made homemade brownies yesterday, and as far as eating my feelings go, I ate them with ice cream and hot fudge. And it was delicious. )

I filled out my calendar for April with… nothing, really.

I used to complain about packed calendars, y’all. Oh silly Dana.

I used to complain about a lot of things. In the grand reset of time, those complaints come back as tinny and false; a clanging bell from long ago that no longer works.

I do know a few things:

1. My dogs have never been happier. They have lustrous, full coats and very waggy tails. They smile and follow us around All. The. Time.
2. Steve the cat is terrifically stressed and has tried to leave on numerous occasions. I grab him and hold his furry girth closely while saying, “NOOO, you cannot leavvvvve me” over and over which I am sure really seals the deal on his mental state.

Yesterday morning I stepped out onto my front porch, coffee in hand, and surveyed the neighborhood. All looked about the same; spring-y trees, birdies, one or two cars quietly heading down the street. What I failed to notice was that Rey, the Floofy Puppers of Goodness, was staring out at me from behind the front door. She was doing that thing called:

I Am Panicking Because You Are In a Place That I Am Not.

Therefore… she jumped on the door and promptly slammed it shut. And it locks because we have an old door that locks immediately whenever it shuts, which is super fun with small children. But that’s another story for another day.

Anyhoo, I am now locked out. Six am. In my Tinkerbell jammies and really interesting hair. I proceed to knock, politely, because Brian is in the office downstairs working. He should hear me, right?

Of course he doesn’t hear me because he is my husband.

AnYHOO I then start to rhthmically POUND on the door, trying not to alert the neighbors, so you know… pounding but in polite way?

The pounding gets a bit more terse.

Then I decide to walk to the backyard because all I have to do is get to the office window and pound *politely* on that and voila! All is well.

But of course I can’t get IN to the back yard because it is blocked by a large table because I have children who do things like that. They block things. All willy nilly. Which is super fun.

So at this point I am slicing up my bare feet on all the walnut shells by our back gate, shoving on on the gate, paired with some terse muttering, but since we live right up against a church parking lot a few people were walking past (six feet apart and no, I don’t know why they were going into the church at such an early hour but we all really need church right now, so I’m not gonna fault that), so I toned the shoving down to POLITE shoving.

Nonchalant, everything-is-normal-over-here shoving, if you will.

And nothing. So, then I decided to gingerly walk back to the front door… and that ended just like you might imagine because my husband.

And that’s how I ended up at my back gate, with a stick, poking at a table on the other side, and talking to it. At six-twenty am. And some poor guy walked by and saw all this, and no matter HOW POLITE I WAS TRYING TO BE it did seem a little off.

I imagine it was due to the Tinkerbell pajamas.

And that was MY morning. All completely new normal over here. How was yours?

Spoiler alert: She did get back into the house because after three sticks the table moved an inch and she was able to wedge herself inside which further reminds her that coronacarbs ARE a thing and they are going to haunt her.

The end.

Carry on, troops. Stay well. Stay home. If you’re like me, stay sober. I love you.