I spend too much time smelling roses.
I sprinkle petals over my girls and tell them they are princesses. I stop them when the sun hits the house in a certain way and make them notice.
I need to do less of it. Sometimes the unexpected wonder of it all makes me feel like I'm trapped in a prism.
Or like I'm a taste bud.
Or an open wound.
Or an old, old woman with nothing to do but sit and think.
All this wonder makes me a terrible driver, a person who can't finish a conversation... and someone who says yes too frequently and then forgets what I've said yes to.