Lovelihood

Made some solid progress on that neverending curtain project. I've got a feeling that the little hexagons are going to be eye-crossingly busy. But it's way late too turn back now. I'm moving on with it, gonna get it hung sometime soonish, and make another one for the window in the room. It will happen.

The continuum of sick days starts at one end with "Well, you're too sick for school. How about we go to the aquarium," and continues to the other end with an ambulance ride to the ER. Somewhere between those two extremes is "lays on the couch all day watching movies," and "feels too sick to play with the iPad." The space between those two points is where The Boy spent his day.

The things on my wrists today. The watch is what I refer to as my maternity watch, the one I turned to when my wrist became to bloated to fit into the metal wristband of my then-favored watch. To replace the original band, a worn-through woven tape thing, I strung a wrist-sized circumference of elastic through a scrap of fabric. It's now my go-to watch when the rest of my day's attire is on the bleak side. The bracelets are simple metal rounds, strung up with sashiko emroidery thread in a macrame-like maneuver. I'd seen something similar online, and it reminded me of when I was little, wrapping lengths of string around pencils and other things I had at my disposal. Such was the excitement of my childhood.

Metal type of a different sort, these were novelty letters, spelling out things like "love" and "home," and meant for looking cute on mantles and curio shelves. We just liked them because they were largish metal letters, and over the course of a couple years we patiently stocked up on an assortment of clearance aisle catchwords that now sit in a metal bowl just low enough for small hands to reach in for a cool e to examine.

The children's haul from Valentine's Day, all strewn across the table is a pretty pleasing sight, even as we're trying to tidy up for the night. It's the first year that most of the Valentines were hand-addressed by fellow kids, and seeing The Boy's name in another child's snaky scrawl is a rather sweet thing. The Boy, of course, has no appreciation for this, instead fixating on the Skittles and fold-up racecar, which are admittedly far cooler than penmanship of even the highest degree.

The adults in the house have both come down with whatever it was that the two children of the house were sniffling through last week. So when The Boy repeately came down from what was obviously not a very productive naptime, and I shooed him away with orders to quietly occupy himself, I was really just hoping for a few moments to sulk in feverish peace. What he came back to me with was a quick and dirty valentine. So I put it up next to the nightstand and let him jump on the bed while I folded some laundry.

We don't generally make the bed. Ever, actually. Unless, you know, people are coming over or something. And even then, it's a toss-up. But the Mr. was away for a few days this week, attending to New Media business. And I washed all the bedding and made the bed up all nice and tidy with the freshly bathed linens. And I respect the rules of bed demarcation even when left on my own. So for a couple days there, the bed was a picture of battling alter-egos, one half crisp and pristine, the other lumpy and a-crumpled. I'm happy to report that, with the Mr.'s return yesterday, all is homogenously messy. As it should be.