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So, I don’t watch the Bachelorette, but I’d totally give July a rose, absolutely. The weather has been spectacularly moody, vacillating between angsty teenage thunderstorms and polite 70-degree afternoons and hey, as a minor coffee addict, mood swings are something I can get behind. The rain makes the sun brighter, is that how the saying goes?

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We’ve been living the heck out of life lately. Beach getaways and summer festivals and marshmallows on sticks, and on the eight day we will rest, but not yet. Not when there’s a band playing and the sun’s shining and there’s a dueling fiddle and guitar player dancing around a fountain in the local square.

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These days have been filled with good, and I’m trying to let them be. I’m trying not to dwell on the yesterday – when I snapped at Bee as I was folding laundry – or the tomorrow, when I’ll surely indulge in moments of impatience or selfishness or anger. Because you know, I’m going to need these obnoxiously good days in my back pocket for when those obnoxiously not good circumstances float my way. And if the good is blue and the bad is red, I don’t want to collect a bunch of purple days. I want to remember them for the colors they were – mostly blue, sometimes red. Always whole.

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So since we’re talking colors, last weekend was sooooooooo blue. It’s summer festival season – parades and popcorn and sunscreen – and Ken’s been working hard renovating the basement so Bee and I have tackled many-an-adventure solo. And last year, I would have been scared. I would have let the sunburns and germs and chaos keep me at home, transforming my should-have-been-a-blue-day into a purple mess of discontent.

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But Bee’s growing up and I’m growing up and we’re all getting to know each other and she’s 2 now, and 2 feels like an age where you should explore and see and do with a confident mother by your side. 2 feels legitimate, like you should come home with a skinned knee every now and then. Like you should have sidewalk chalk marks on your buns (check) and blackberry stains on your fingers (check) and rosy cheeks and grass-stained feet and wavy tendrils styled by heat and sweat and fun (check, check, check).

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In other news, Bee has two potential suitors for an arranged marriage, and so far, the race is tight. I’m kidding, of course, but also kind of not really but I’m keeping that part under wraps so she can’t accuse me of meddling when she’s 20 and reads this. I can meddle in my head all I’d like, though, and last week she was basically a newlywed, engaging in poolside chatter and dancing with an older man (he’s 4). She’d spin around like a crazy person and he’d try to temper her by holding her hand, but she was completely untameable – a wild horse – and eventually he just threw his hands up in the air and shook his head, which he’ll basically be doing in 20 years when they’re married anyway. Times change, people don’t, man.

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Speaking of suitors, Ken’s mine. We’re prepping for a kid-free getaway next week (first ever!) and I cannot wait to date the heck out of this dude. It’s going to be so amazingly, beautifully, crazy-like blue.

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