Lovelihood

It's possible that before abandoning our patio furniture to the winter elements, we should have taken better care to protect the wood from disintegration.

It wasn't the sort of warm, sun-shiny day that begs for a trip to the park. But it wasn't altogether freezing, and no raindrops fell from the sky (and everything about Bear's demeanor mid-morning screamed that she could use some free-range time), so we went. Bear, facing no competition for the playground equipment, partook of everything, gleefully bouncing from one attraction to the next, always narrating, announcing her next move, and extending a hand with a "Follow me, Mami."

Experimented with an as-of-yet unproven V-day idea in the form of paper pulp and flower seeds. We shall see...

The best thing about having finished The Iliad on the bus today is knowing I don't have to do it again.

The Boy, not understanding the concept of elasticity as it relates to slingshots, tried to improvise one using my granny-seamstress measuring tape and the bottom rung of my chair. It was a worthy effort, one afforded by his newly-acquired shoelace-tying skills.

I've got a jarful of hexagons, which is far from a full quilt's worth. But it's enough to start piecing together. By hand. And because trying to figure out a sustainable plan and pattern just about did me in, I just decided to reach in the jar and blindly pull out pieces to attach. I'm ok with this.

Old-ish houses have their quirks. The overhead light in the bedroom will decide, sometimes for a few hours, other times for a couple of weeks, to not come on. No amount of fusebox jiggling or switch flipping or bulb changing will coax it prematurely back to illumination. It's a condition that would likely be remedied with a call to a trustworthy electrician, but why bother when you know it will eventually come on again.