It's raining outside. The warm weather of earlier this week has been absorbed back into cold, wintery gloom. I think there might actually be some ice out there, and it already seems like ages since Noah and I played out in the backyard in short sleeves and bare feet.
He's alseep right now, and probably will stay down for most of the afternoon. Ceiba is curled up next to me, occasionally sighing one of her wheezy little dog sighs. Max is curled up in her dogbed in front of the fireplace. Maybe I could start a fire. I think I would like some hot chocolate. Then I could sit and write all afternoon -- warm and blissed out, the perfect atmosphere for thinking deep thoughts about life, the universe and everything.
Maybe I should dust off that book outline I wrote six months ago. Maybe I should make dinner in the crock pot. Maybe I should put Noah's baby photos in that album I bought and frame some for above the fireplace. The kitchen actually needs mopped, but getting the house clean would feel so good right now. A sense of accomplishment, no matter how small, for I am at peace with how domesticated I've become.
I should exercise. I should make Noah's next doctor's appointment. I should bake cookies for the neighbors.
Wait. Is that the mail? Jesus Christ, Ceiba. Shut up. SHUT UP.
Look! It's just mail! Envelopes and...ooh.
Fuck it. I'll talk to y'all on Monday.
EDITED TO ADD:
(Wait! Wait! You know who can get my nose out of US Weekly and back onto the computer? Laura Bennett, that's who. She totally asked me for a personal favor, if you define "me" as "my boss, who forwarded it to me, but holy crap, that's about as close to touching God in heaven as I've ever gotten, and I once hugged Andrew Shue." Anyway, check it out, babies, and leave a comment if you are so inclined. And I define "inclined" as "bored, because no one else updates their blogs on the weekends so it's not like you have anything better to do, right?")