I chose wisely, my brother

For the love of Pete, I’m pooped out.
I’m sitting here at my computer staring at a photograph on my desktop of my oldest daughter holding her son on her shoulder as he bids me a wide, two-toothed grin that smacks of more energy than what’s generated over Niagara Falls.
I couldn’t be a new mom again even if I tried.
I’m as spent as an old quarter passed from pocket to pocket since 1940. But at least that’s kept its shape—and is worth equal or better than it was when it rolled out of the mint.
The only mint condition I can attest to these days is the toothpaste made to taste that way to hide its gum disease-fighting formula.
And if the bags under my eyes get any bigger, I’ll be able to go along with Pete’s “one box theory” when we move because I’ll have my own set of storage units about face.
However, I still can say I’m in my prime, or at least I know what my prime is. All I have to do is look at the paint stains under and on my fingernails to figure that out.
I’ve also captured the World Cup category for consecutive repeats in the up-before-sunrise-and-to-bed-after-it-goes-down category for women over the age 45.
And then to top it all off, I went where no wise woman has ever gone before and asked someone who doesn’t live with me to pick out the paint colours for the farmhouse kitchen and living room.
Yes folks, Mrs. Know-It-All went tippy canoe. And the kicker? I asked a man who until recently spent 99.9 percent of his time repairing airplanes in Arizona. Not exactly the designer guy-type, you may ask?
Nope, not exactly. But I reckoned that if he could look that good wearing a pink Hawaiian shirt, wide-brimmed sombrero-like hat, and two silver earrings in one ear lobe, then he must have some fashion sense.
Why not let go of the reins and give it up for the one guy I spent so much of my childhood trying to boss around?
Besides, if he picked the wrong colour, I could just tell my mom on him.
My brother, Jay, strolled into town a week ago with a stress-free aura I’d have paid money for. He said he was on a mission of mercy to help us get the kinks out of the farmhouse and whatever other jobs I could muster up around there for him to do.
And true to his nature, he saved the day—and the day after that, and the day after that.
“It must be brotherly love” someone close to me said, when they found out I really was serious about giving up the power of my female prerogative to pick my own paint colours.
Yes, Ma’am. I swept my mind empty of its “Know It All” furniture and cleared the way to boldly go where I’ve never gone before. And even if he’d have picked green, I’d of been okay with that because my mind was a guest house.
He made his choices, I gave the nod, bought the paint, and we got to work. And just as I expected (and just as I have contended since I was 10 years old and Jay was seven), I was right.
The farmhouse inside looks amazing. Irish, but amazing.

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