If the new winter weather reality is that there's to be little snow in our future, then Ed and I need to face the fact that skis are going to sit idle. And we along with them. It's hard to hike when everything is icy. Ed doesn't skate and thinks he'll break many bones learning at this age. He plays volley ball well, I haven't played since high school. And so, searching for a common winter sport, we consider giving bowling a larger share of our free time.
Independently, we both look online (in the wee hours of the night -- we are that curious) on how one goes about purchasing a bowling bowl. (I cannot find a good one to use at the alley. The finger grips are all wrong and the ball often slips right off my thumb.) And independently we conclude that there's something just so extremely difficult about drilling holes in the correct place, especially for medium-poor players like me, that we give up and instead, spend the last two hours of the night discussing a work issue that Ed is thinking about these days.
In other words, I got too little sleep. So did he, but he does not have a morning appointment and I do.
As night turns to day, I look outside to see a world of icy rain. I call my appointment and balk at having to make the trip out on the icy roads. They tell me to come later, possibly because everyone has been canceling everything today and they have quite the empty waiting room.
All this to say that a morning, even a mundane morning like this one, is full of coincidences and unexpected consequences and odd chains of events. Never wake up thinking that your life is too predictable. Rain turns to ice and holes in bowling balls confound your sensibilities and there you are, wondering what the next surprise will be like.
Breakfast, thankfully, is without surprises.
And soon it is noon and I am heading to pick up Snowdrop. And my oh my, is it ever raining! We're just a degree upwards of freezing so at least the roads are safe, but the rain is brutal!
I foresee many good hours of indoor play...
And indeed, the little one is happy, from the minute I show her the baguette I procured this morning just for her.
And ahah joins us and all is just about perfect...
Until, quite unexpectedly, she says: I want to go outside to the barn and give the chickens some bread.
You want to go to the barn? I look dubiously at the rain filled clouds.
Yessss. I want to see the chickens in the barn. She is very definitive with her yeses. You need only to hear that drawn out "s" to know that she means business.
I glance up at Ed. Want to come?
We head out.
And it's a good thing, because the warm dampness in the air has swelled the wood on the coop door and so it did not swing open on cue this morning. The cheepers are still inside and quite unhappy with their confinement.
(Ed tries to figure out what's wrong with the door lock. Snowdrop is anxious to help him come to a solution.)
The little one is clearly loving her barn excursion. She is thrilled to see the cheepers, thrilled to be peering at the barn's dark recesses.
The barn is where cows live -- she explains to us. I mumble something about not having cows, but she's only half listening. She is completely absorbed by the antics of the four hens.
The rain is dripping away outside, but there we are, under the still solid roof of the barn -- Ed working away at the door, Snowdrop jumping with joy, offering at the same time numerous explanation about the barn and its role in the solar system.
It's a delightful set of minutes, even as I am rather anxious to get us back to the house. It's not cold if you're jumping up and down or if you're Ed. It's rather chilly if you're me.
It takes a while to get Snowdrop excited about going back inside. But once there, she continues her dance and it's clear that in all that jumping, the bliss molecules have been activated in her brain and she is coasting on total happiness.
Total.
And it continues after her nap...
(Cooking up the eggs.)
Life. So complicated, but oftentimes -- so very simple. Like cooking up a bunch of fake eggs on a toy stove. Simple and beautiful.
Independently, we both look online (in the wee hours of the night -- we are that curious) on how one goes about purchasing a bowling bowl. (I cannot find a good one to use at the alley. The finger grips are all wrong and the ball often slips right off my thumb.) And independently we conclude that there's something just so extremely difficult about drilling holes in the correct place, especially for medium-poor players like me, that we give up and instead, spend the last two hours of the night discussing a work issue that Ed is thinking about these days.
In other words, I got too little sleep. So did he, but he does not have a morning appointment and I do.
As night turns to day, I look outside to see a world of icy rain. I call my appointment and balk at having to make the trip out on the icy roads. They tell me to come later, possibly because everyone has been canceling everything today and they have quite the empty waiting room.
All this to say that a morning, even a mundane morning like this one, is full of coincidences and unexpected consequences and odd chains of events. Never wake up thinking that your life is too predictable. Rain turns to ice and holes in bowling balls confound your sensibilities and there you are, wondering what the next surprise will be like.
Breakfast, thankfully, is without surprises.
And soon it is noon and I am heading to pick up Snowdrop. And my oh my, is it ever raining! We're just a degree upwards of freezing so at least the roads are safe, but the rain is brutal!
I foresee many good hours of indoor play...
And indeed, the little one is happy, from the minute I show her the baguette I procured this morning just for her.
And ahah joins us and all is just about perfect...
Until, quite unexpectedly, she says: I want to go outside to the barn and give the chickens some bread.
You want to go to the barn? I look dubiously at the rain filled clouds.
Yessss. I want to see the chickens in the barn. She is very definitive with her yeses. You need only to hear that drawn out "s" to know that she means business.
I glance up at Ed. Want to come?
We head out.
And it's a good thing, because the warm dampness in the air has swelled the wood on the coop door and so it did not swing open on cue this morning. The cheepers are still inside and quite unhappy with their confinement.
(Ed tries to figure out what's wrong with the door lock. Snowdrop is anxious to help him come to a solution.)
The little one is clearly loving her barn excursion. She is thrilled to see the cheepers, thrilled to be peering at the barn's dark recesses.
The barn is where cows live -- she explains to us. I mumble something about not having cows, but she's only half listening. She is completely absorbed by the antics of the four hens.
The rain is dripping away outside, but there we are, under the still solid roof of the barn -- Ed working away at the door, Snowdrop jumping with joy, offering at the same time numerous explanation about the barn and its role in the solar system.
It's a delightful set of minutes, even as I am rather anxious to get us back to the house. It's not cold if you're jumping up and down or if you're Ed. It's rather chilly if you're me.
It takes a while to get Snowdrop excited about going back inside. But once there, she continues her dance and it's clear that in all that jumping, the bliss molecules have been activated in her brain and she is coasting on total happiness.
Total.
And it continues after her nap...
(Cooking up the eggs.)
Life. So complicated, but oftentimes -- so very simple. Like cooking up a bunch of fake eggs on a toy stove. Simple and beautiful.
