My mother used to affect an accent when she felt utterly beat after a day in front of the blackboard. "My legs shore are tarred," she'd twang, and then she'd laugh lightly, straighten up and stand at the stove still in her work skirt but with slippers instead of shoes making supper for us. Supper was for when my father was away and she was really spent; otherwise we ate dinner, formal dishes, impeccably plated. I preferred supper, which felt very much like spending time with an old friend: casual, comfortable, and oftentimes the bearer of a funny nickname nobody else would understand. Mama's Eggs. Sunshine on a Plate. Worms in a Puddle.
Today my legs are tarred and my arms and every other part of me, but it's the good kind that comes with having been productive re: tasks to be done. I still need to hit AC Moore in the AM, but otherwise I think I'm on track to produce the Aztec Jaguar Warrior costume that the youngest has requested for Halloween. Popocatépetl was a walk in the park compared to what's entailed for this one, included, but not limited to, rendering the youngest feathered.