Sunday Night

It’s Sunday night. At least I think it is? When I really concentrate I can count the days on my fingers. . . Saturday, 1. . . Sunday, 2. . . yep, that’s two days. . .which means the weekend is over, right? Somehow it all went by so quickly I barely remember it. A blur that swept me away in all of its goodness and chaos and, oh yes, a snotty nosed 10 month old.

Meadow is sick. The kind of sick that leaves anyone who is close to her with a lovely stain of colorful nose-drippings on his or her shoulder, chest, hair, and/or arm. The entertainment of the previous five days has included the game, See Who Can Sneak Behind Meadow and Swipe Her Nose with A Tissue. Girlfriend is no fool, she senses you coming. It does not matter how clever you try to be. . . she is more clever. Just as you think you are going to make contact–tissue to nose–Meadow jerks her head to the side so tissue meets ear. Plot foiled again.

You wish you lived with us, don’t you? We are full of excitement.

Seriously, though, all weekend I’ve been formulating a post in my head and suddenly it’s Sunday night after 10 p.m. and I haven’t even begun writing. We turned the heat on in our house for the first time tonight. It feels so cozy. The house is quiet, except for Ray Lamontagne, who sings to me through Pandora. Everyone is sleeping and I suspect it won’t be long until Meadow beckons for a late night snuggle time.

If I’ve learned anything about blogging it is this. . . thou shalt not blog when thou is overly tired. . . especially when said blogger tends to get slap happy when tired.

Since I am one to take my own advice. . . how about a few pictures to start off the week. . .

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If I can just get my foot high enough, she thinks to herself, I’m so gonna blow this joint. . .