Lovelihood

Just had a long day of things that needed to be done (errands, work) and people to catch up with (in-laws, kids a-clamor) and a myriad of tiny things to put back in order and planning out my training schedule so that I can feel comfortable about running that race at the end of the month and amusedly taking in the Boy's recap of his most exciting day at school. In short, a mighty nice day, a fine one to cap off with a new stitching project.

Late May is no time to get complacent about temperate predictability, and no right-minded Seattleite leaves home without rain gear. As I was detailing to the Boy our morning's plan to walk down to his soon-to-be elementary school to pick up some paperwork then up to the doughnut house, weather permitting, he inquired as to the whereabouts of an umbrella. I didn't tell him that umbrellas are for people not from here, that the last time I used one was fifteen years ago when I was promptly chastised by my college editor (later my man of honor) for looking like a tourist, that before moving back to Seattle last summer I systematically removed all promotional umbrellas that had come into our possession to the donation piles. I just told him we don't have one and directed the children to grab their jackets.

Depending on how big I end up making this thing, I'm either done with a sixth an eleventh of the blocks. Maybe somewhere in between.

Nearly a year after schlepping all that leaden type back to Seattle, I have yet to finish the task of sorting out all the letters into their appropriate cubbies. Once every few weeks I dig into the their double-bagged temporary residence and alphebetize a handful and then vigorously scrub off with the most potent of soaps and hot waters the heavy metal soot that stains the ridges of my fingerprints. And I stop to marvel at the utter perfection of ligatures.

Use #18 for wee little mason jars: temporarily housing bugs gathered on an impromptu backyard safari. When you tire of looking at the roly poly bugs scale their twigs and leaves and apple chunks encased in their jars on the dining table (my threshhold was about one day), enthusiastically suggest to the pre-schooler that it may be time to release the bugs back into the wild. Use #19 for wee little mason jars: collecting clods of dirt and moss dislodged from the gutters by foraging birds.

The month's footraces, birthdays, anniversaries, various gift-making occasions and one date night, are finally behind us. And with the kids actually succumbing to an afternoon nap, and the Mr. out of my hair for the same period, I returned my attention to the neglected heap of would-be quilt pieces to assemble the first couple of blocks for the Boy's quilt. This will, unfortunately, be a short-lived period of productivity, as work will be demanding an extra day for a couple of weeks, and the house will be requiring a little bit of cleaning love so as not to scare away the out of town guests we have on the way, and I stress over my lack of preparation for the big race coming up. So maybe June won't be the reprieve I'd thought it would be.

The Boy was very insistent that we take a vacation today. Which entailed packing up a snack and his milk and slinging a backpack over his tiny square shoulders and leading us through the backyard in search of "good things." Which are, apparently, bugs. And so we did. www.lovelihood.com