getting out of the house

We have to get out of the house. We have to get out of the house. We have to get out of the house. We have to get out of the house...

We got out of the house. On the grounds of Lincoln's preschool, only 5 minutes down the road. Snow up to my knees and so old and crunchy that I didn't fall through every time but enough times that each step was totally laborious and kind of surprising. Lincoln lead us on the back route first, to where his preschool class had hung the bird feeders they'd made a few weeks back. There was nothing left of them but a few strings by then. We marched on to the edge and then to the gazebo and it was a lovely struggle the whole way. Totally mind-clearing and restorative and tiring at the same time. And fun. Just what we needed after a long month buried by the weight of my own work, and under snowfall after snowfall after snowfall after snowfall.

watching the Olympics

Sometimes television gives us a break. Sometimes it gives us all a break together. And sometimes it causes the son that you feel like you never snuggle with anymore (partially because he barely sits still long enough and mostly because you are always guaranteed to have double babies screaming at your pant leg in moments that used to be filled with singular snuggling) to squeeze in next to you and watch ladies ice-dancing in Sochi, Russia. And sometimes you look at this picture and see how tired you look and how content he looks and you smile. Repeatedly.