I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from Mary Oliver's "The Summer Day"

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

I've stopped asking why

First, this happened:
















He was watching his nightly "show" before bed. I have no idea how he fit in there. Or how it could possibly been comfortable, much less an inviting prospect.

The next day, this happened:





















He wasn't doing it for a photo op, either. I came in to find him crammed into Laura's carseat, pondering, staring off into space. Boys can be such strange little beings, can't they?



This is Laura's preferred position these days. It's putting a serious damper on her napping, though, since now she just stands up in her crib and screams instead of just lying down and going to sleep. Will never did this, so I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do about the situation. Nevertheless, I think she looks so comically little when she stands up and tosses everything out of her toy basket that it's almost worth it. And she's just so proud of herself that it's hard to be frustrated with this new little wrinkle.

We're spending tomorrow morning (Will and I, that is) at a farm for a field trip. Nothing says "fun" like the threat of stormy weather (on a "rain or shine" field trip, no less), a million wet preschoolers, and the lingering scent of animal dung, now does it? But Will's really excited about it, so I guess I should just suck it up and deal with it. My only concern is that this place doesn't have pigs, since Will has obsessed about seeing the pigs since he learned where his field trip was going to be. More to come on this...

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