I've become my mother.
I bat my eyes when someone says something flattering,
I secretly wish for what we used to mock my mother about (happy children)
I cross my legs when someone says something funny,
I feed the hungry masses
my garden: she PRODUCES!
and you should SEE my kitchen.
It's a happy disaster.
In the past two days it has produced
two peach pies
nectarine smoothies for everyone
cucumber slices (mandatory) before every meal
(If we don't eat at least a dozen a day, they start attacking)
14 loaves of zucchini bread
a double batch of chocolate chip cookies
and an entire weekend's worth of dirty dishes... artfully piled up in the double sink.
Call me Priscill-er.