Monday's little ones

Just as the Oscars were approaching the denouement -- the moment when the director prize was to be announced (I was especially curious if the Polish director of Cold War -- the movie my friend slipped into my suitcase when I was last in Warsaw -- would luck out and walk away with the big prize), Ed said -- we caught a mouse.

Such a relief! There may be another mouse. Indeed, there likely is another, but tonight's bold evening visitor has been tough to corner. I don't want to risk having it do a miraculous Houdini escape maneuver and so I suggest we set out to release the little devil right away.

I nearly miss the final Oscar prizes, but still, it's worth it -- we have a beautiful if cold night drive through a chilled and frozen landscape. We wish the mouse well and send him flying out into a clump of bushes.



This morning, the drop in temperatures is pronounced. Our front storm door looks like this:






And the outside world looks like this:






I am no longer surprised by what combination of cats will be there to greet me. Yesterday -- only Stop Sign. Today, no Stop Sign, only her babes, Jacket and Dance.






They rest on the blanket, but, too, they take little forays along the path. Looking for mom? I think so, because when she shows up later in the day, they are ecstatic.


I need not remind you that it is Monday. We are back on schedule! Sparrow comes to the farmhouse just before breakfast. We play first. I haven't spent much time with the little guy in recent weeks and so I test the waters.

Turns out he's the same happy little guy. Well, not so little: Sparrow is fast outgrowing clothes sewn for a 12 month old.







Breakfast, for my two guys.






(I don't know that he loves sweet potatoes... Like nearly everything here for him, this is a hand me down from Snowdrop's baby days.)






(When Sparrow is here with just the two of us, he tracks Ed's every move. Predictably, he likes it when Ed messes with him.)












As for toys -- well, I give him choices: I reach into Snowdrop's piles and pull out what's safe. Duplo characters. A music cube. Sticky blocks.

It's not even close: he likes the music cube just fine, has not the slightest interest in the plastic characters, and plays enthusiastically with the sticky blocks. I'm just so amused by this: I mean, Snowdrop is a terrific builder of tall towers, but all her passion seems to run to her story filled hours of character play (big, small, plastic, plush, imaginary, real -- it hardly matters). Sparrow may still lean in that or any other direction, but today, he just wants to connect sticky blocks and occasionally, bang on the music cube.






(Stop Sing shows up. More food, please!)






And then I pick up Snowdrop (who eschews paths in favor of deeper snow.)






(Did you really buy chocolate chip cookies just for me??)






(What should we play...)






(When I tell her I need to dash out for a sec to refill bowls -- Stop Sign had just returned -- Snowdrop insists on coming with me and doing the job herself. Stop Sign is no more afraid of her than she is of me.)






(Oh that crunchy snow!)






Inside again: we're playing "California, on a sunny day."






(A pause for a review of "what's growing in California right now." The list is long.)






As night settles in, Whiskers returns for round two of his food grab. Such a furry guy: if I didn't know any better, I'd say he' just a stuffed pillow, taking you along for the ride.





Nigh time. There's  a forecast of more snow, but I'm not really listening. In February, you take one day at a time and you find the time to recognize and acknowledge its singular beauty. And secretly, you count the days til spring.