I have no good reason for not writing on my blog. But I do have about a dozen bad ones. They all come down to this — writing requires paying attention. And sometimes I’m not really paying attention. At least, I’m not paying attention to what’s right in front of me. The stuff that would make good material. I’m paying attention to the mental toe-jam inside my head. And it doesn’t always congeal into a decent story. It’s just hamster-inside-a-wheel crap that doesn’t have much of a punchline. Yes, in the past month, my kids have done and said some adorable, funny things. But I haven’t captured any of them. I did enjoy them in the moment, though. Sometimes that’s enough.

Spending a lot of time this Valentine’s Day with my other man — the short one who still sleeps with a sock monkey.

Girl is at a sleepover, and I thought Boy would be begging me to call one of his friends for a visit, but no. He seems happy to have his mom and dad to himself.

I haven’t yelled at him in 24 hours, which is pretty rare. We didn’t fight even when I told him he was going to miss the end of Godzilla because we needed to leave for church. He hasn’t rolled his eyes at me, hasn’t stomped off in a pout. It gives me hope.

I worry that Boy will soon travel to the dark side of the moon — teenagerhood, and that he and I will stop talking. I know the days are coming when he will no longer bury the piano in Lego Star Wars characters, when he will purge Spider-Man from his room. I know he won’t be my other man forever.

So I’m enjoying these days. I gave him Axe body wash, shampoo and cologne for Valentine’s Day. The smell of choice for 9-year-old boys. Now he asks to take a shower. He wants to smell good. For me.

Times you should not talk to me:

- When I am in the bathroom getting a child dressed
- When I am late for work and putting on makeup in the bathroom
- When I am using the bathroom
- Okay, pretty much, if I’m anywhere near the bathroom, don’t talk to me.

Here’s a word I wish I didn’t know: “barndominium.” This word has been thrust into my vocubulary by my husband. We seem to be playing out a 2010 version of the 1960s sitcom “Green Acres.”

In the modern version, the husband drags the wife over to his computer to show her screen after screen of rural property for sale all over the state. Some of these properties have little houses on them. Some of them have mobile homes, and some have, you guessed it, barndominiums. A barndominium is a barn with an apartment built into it. Let’s just say this is not where I want to spend my golden years.

I have come up with a nice way of saying “Are you out of your mind?” I say, “But what about Zsa Zsa?” This response is also kinder than my previous one: “I’m sure your next wife will be very happy there.” (Side note: I have since learned that it was actually Eva Gabor, not Zsa Zsa, who starred in Green Acres, but I’m sticking with Zsa Zsa because it’s a much funnier name.)

I’m afraid we do not share the same vision of retirement. Bob sees himself endlessly puttering — in the chicken coop, in the garden, among the fruit trees. The gentleman farmer.

I see myself drinking red wine with old friends, writing, taking fun classes. I doubt they have yoga in Hooterville.

I picture myself at 70 in a pink feather boa, chugging chianti with Arnold the Pig.

“Arnold dahling,” I say, “It’s so dull here. I miss Park Avenue.”

Arnold just nods kindly and nuzzles me with his snout.