Some spring days at home feel like cheating. The whole day is a whir of sun and picnics, hours whiled away in the hammock, wandering through a park, or happily digging in the garden.
Often there is music, and no better song accompanies these idyllic days than the Decemberists “June Hymn.”
Then there are days like this one. A morning spent at the clinic. A medievil torture device doubling as a baby-x-ray machine. A little boy with pneumonia and barely opened eyes. A little girl escapes with only allergies, but then splits her toe; tomorrow may see stitches.
My arms are full all day, which is a gift in these times of gleeful crawling and cruising and bravery.
Around me the odds and ends of life stack up, the laundry, the shoes hither and yon, the toad house ingredients. Dinner will be impossible to put together one handed…. no handed really, as this baby is too heavy for one arm past the fourth hour.
Joe’s famous fried egg sandwiches will suffice.