What a great week.
My parents drove out from Colorado with my sweet almost-13-year-old niece. (Thanks, sis, for letting us borrow her.) We didn’t do anything big, just hung around the house mostly, spending time together. It was lovely. My mom and dad took the four big kids shopping for Easter clothes (woohoo!), took all the kids to the park, took the big girls swimming at the hotel pool—that kind of thing, mellow and close to home. As for me, I got to putter around the house with the baby during those outings, which is exactly what I wanted to be doing.
I amused myself by twittering in rhyme in honor of Poetry Month, and I mowed my first lawn (thanks, Dad, for the lesson) and my folks did lots more work in the backyard, and we cleaned out a playhouse that was here when we moved into this rental house. We had stuck the kids’ bikes in there and they collapsed in a tangle, and there were spiders, so no one ever rode the bikes or played in the playhouse. Now it’s all clean and spider-free, and we’re going to move a kiddie table and chairs in there and some fun playthings just in time for (gulp) Rilla’s third birthday next week.
That’s right; that baby is about to be three.
My mother made fried green tomatoes with our garden’s first bounty, and we stuffed ourselves on her good cornbread and vegetable soup as we always do when she comes, because she’s the spoil-you-rotten type (and my dad is too) and always makes my favorites when she comes to visit. And they brought me a new solar pump for the birdbath to replace the one we burned out, so now the fountain is merrily arcing again, and the birds are indeed bathing, and the backyard is so pretty with the whisper of jasmine, and the daisies and roses and freesia in bloom, and the fat red geraniums, and the red and purple salvia inviting the hummingbirds to flash in and out, and the phoebe singing her name.
What a great week.
Sometimes the postscript is longer than the post.
Now If Only She Were that Good at Keeping Track of the Library Books
Letters from Thailand: the First
Yes, well, carry on, then.
day thirteen: barefoot boy