Snowdrop has spent nights here since she was a wee one, but with a new brother and all the spring and summer hoopla, it has been a while. Plus, Ed, who is her official pancake/waffle pal, is not here right now (did I mention this already?) and, too, on this visit she is waking up to a school day. Everything is a little off.
Nonetheless, I find mornings here really special. And there is plenty of time for stellar moments, including, of course, breakfast on the porch.
The girl does love bacon and cherries, even more than whatever item she is dunking in maple syrup.
Perhaps the most precious moments for me are ones where I do farmette chores. Whereas when I am alone, many of the chores surrounding plant and beast weigh me down, Snowdrop is so excited by them (especially the animal-related stuff), that it just makes me smile endlessly when she tags along.
(Running to help me with the cheepers)
(Dishing out corn...)
(May I pick some flowers?)
(I can never say no...)
(Flowers and smiles go hand in hand)
Eventually, we do drop her off at school and I proceed to take my daughter home. I pause there to spend time with the little Sparrow boy.
My girl, Sparrow and I take a long walk in the neighborhood and I see that he, too, is a stellar stroller baby. He and Primrose are alike in this regard. You probably think he is a serious little boy. Maybe. But I wouldn't put any money on it. He is, after all, only two months old.
And in the afternoon I pick up Snowdrop. She isn't with me long -- she has an appointment with her parents later in the day, but it is a terrific little spell of reading and rehashing the day's events.
Evening: a subdued time in a subdued garden.
One last study of the irrepressible effervescent lilies...
Ed's boat is likely full right now. They may well be playing cards. Or recalling yet again who did what way back when (the guys were once at the UW together), but at the farmhouse the evening is very, very quiet.
I love that you had a threesome sleepover. And oh, those gardens. I swoon over them in every post. xx
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