Tuesday, September 20, 2016


Sometimes, a day can be so sunny, so utterly perfect feeling. I thought today was quite like this.

We had a beautiful breakfast on a beautiful morning on the porch.

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This isn't the time of year where you're going to rave about your flowers, and still, I thought the beds outside were looking good. There's much to admire!

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I had another string of details to attend to -- most having to do with some issues that arose with the work on my Warsaw apartment. I barely made it on time to pick up Snowdrop at school.

Relieved that I have all the paper messes behind me, I take the little one back to the farmette.

I unbuckle the girl and set her free.

The cheepers rush to her, expecting bread. Here, she seems to be telling Butter -- I have nothing for you!

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She sets out -- you guessed it -- toward the tomatoes. The cheepers, undeterred, follow.

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Knowing how anxious the chickens are to share in her treats, Snowdrop takes her harvest inside the house.

Once all tomatoes are consumed and juice drippings are wiped (more or less) clean, Snowdrop goes to her play area. Ed comes in. Nothing pleases her more than having a bunch of people to play with.

Read book! -- she pleads.

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These are her most tired minutes -- those just before her nap -- but I have no doubt that the girl is happy. Very happy.

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After her nap, she eats. She has a new way of appreciating raspberries...

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I'm agreeable. Anything to distract her from the presence of the cookies we had baked together yesterday.

In the afternoon, the sun is bright, the humidity isn't too high. I'm thinking -- this may be the last of the truly summer-like days. We ought to seize it and do something special.

I tell Snowdrop we'll be going to the local park. To climb towers and play in the playground.

We drive to our nearby Lake Farm County Park.

What a bust! Pulling in, I see immediately that the silo tower with the good views is closed. Why? I cannot tell you. The playground at the side seems poorly maintained and not geared for toddlers. I don't give up. I know that there are two more playgrounds further down the drive.

I come to the second one. Not much there. Plus, it is completely overrun with wild geese. You may find that charming. Not me. Geese in parks are a nuisance. I would not plop a toddler in their midst, no matter how desperate I was for outdoor playtime.

We drive to the third play area. Snowdrop is doubting my sincerity. Where are the towers? Why aren't we playing?

It's not great here either. There are swings, but none of them are suitable for a tiny one. There is a climbing structure. She rushes to it, but it's like a highway leading to nowhere: once she gets up, there's not much that she can do. I try to get her into the pipe tunnels and she looks at me amused and disinterested. 

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Finally, she locates a slide that is rather steep but manageable.

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She goes down again (and nearly lands on her butt on the ground, but I catch her)...

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And again, and again and again. And I suppose I would have stayed with her there, letting her slide like this over and over again, but the mosquitoes were out and I could not subject her to their nasty presence.

Snowdrop is a girl who loves the promise of adventure and I felt that this didn't quite measure up to what anyone would call "grand." And so I tell her that once we return home, I'll dig out her little wading pool for one last summer splash.

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She is happy. Very happy.

But once again, I have to lure her away from her fun. The mosquitoes, though not as fierce as in the park, are hovering.

Ed comes out, the little girl is delighted...

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But I have to drag her away from it all.

I offer her a bath inside the house and she sweetly goes along.

I do not cut into that one. She sits in the tub and pours water from one cup to the next and I am so relieved that she can have her time of uninterrupted play. Only when her parents are about to show up do I wrap a towel around her. I am loathe to reward anything with a sweet treat, but I do think that Snowdrop deserves a piece of an oatmeal raisin cookie for all her interrupted play. A cookie that she herself baked the day before.