In which I crack myself up

So I'm looking through journals and notebooks and things looking for snippets of poem and story I could mine and a) I have enough notebooks to open a bookstore and b)I don't think I have ever filled a notebook. Possibly once.

Finding stories about the kids - B, 4 years old, in the McDonald's play place in Pleasanton, CA. He comes and flops down beside me, clearly disgruntled. I ask him what's wrong.

"Nobody doesn't want me to bust them up, Mom!"

***

A, aged 2, sitting on the kitchen counter, eating garlic powder. Looks up when I come in. "Hi." she says. "This tastes bad!"

***

Rough notes for a sonnet about Brad. I was taking a poetry course and the first assignment was "Show up next week with two sonnets you've written." (I still get a tiny headache thinking about it) So the notes ramble around:

Can I write a sonnet about how I can't write a sonnet? No, it's typically a love poem. Lovely. I certainly don't do love poems, even if I try. I can't PLAN a love poem! (aside: the opening words of that particular sonnet are "Plan a love poem.")Telling myself I can't certainly isn't helping much now, is it? What would I talk about? Tenderness, strength, his honest open face, his integrity, his steadfastness - yep, great concrete words there. I guess he's like some sort of benevolent granite boulder - well wouldn't THAT make a person weak at the knees?

***

And then there's this line, from a different time. I'm sitting in church, listening, and I pick up my notebook and write:

Hee. Apparently "people are born multifauceted." I wish I could draw - where we would put all the taps?