Life goes on.

Huh. Guess everything Scott Westerfeld writes isn't meant for young adults, huh? Who knew? Here I was expecting a nice story about angst ridden teens in space, and what I got was rough and rowdy butt sex. That is, I didn't actually have butt sex myself, I mean, the characters in the book did. It was a good story anyway. Not that I have anything against butt sex. Especially if I'm not having it. To each their own.

ANYWAY.

The baby is busy climbing up things she can't get down from. Actually, I lie, that part only takes a minute. The baby is busy crying because she can't get down from what she has crawled up on. I am busy getting her down so she can do it again in another spot. I have tried moving her little legs in some kind of attempt to teach her that crawling works up AND down, but she's too busy crying to pay attention.

Boy is busy talking on the phone. Everyday after dinner the phone rings. Neither Simon nor I so much as look at the phone. It will not be for us. We don't giggle nonstop. We don't wonder whether she likes us, has asked so and so out, is going to be asked out by so and so, can be connived into saying "Yes" when asked, etc. We don't have a prank to play on someone over the phone, such as pretending the connection isn't working. Above all, even if we did, we couldn't make conversations about all this last for several hours every single night. Which is why we're not teenagers, I guess. I'm not complaining. About being a teen, that is; I am complaining about this addiction to the phone.

The Bean is busy being terribly cute. She is especially fond of stories just now, and if we're not reading one to her, she is reading one to the baby, or the dog, or the world at large. I don't know how to impress upon you how cute this is, because I don't have words for it and fonts don't come with a cute button. Imagine a "Hello Kitty" font, then imagine me using it to type "She's soooo cute!". That cute.

I have an idea!... wait a sec... there!

See? Told you she was cute.

The Simon is busy working. Six days a week, every week. But when he's done, six days a week, he pulls onto our street and I tell the girls he's home**. The dog starts barking, and I let her out to start the parade. Then the Bean says "Oh! Poppy!" and goes to day hi. Once he's in the door and the baby realizes what's going on, she crawls over at her fastest speed- thumpthumpthump -and says "HAI!". It's an event. Maybe it makes up for the working, at least a little bit.

I am busy being housewiferly. I made jam. I had never canned anything before, and we had these grapes we didn't know what to do with, and now we have deep purple delight in many, many little jars. I like it. I just may do it again. Boy is awed by the notion that Simon is making our bread and I am making the jam that goes on it; in short, he's amazed that food can be made by hand.

I also made chili sauce with a box of Gorgeous chilies that my NSES* sent. Yummy. And I roasted some, and am drying some. And I cut up and froze a mess of peppers and some leeks. And dried the leek leaves to use like chives. And made soup for lunch with radishes, leeks and miso, which gave me the wind so bad I like to died, which is probly TMI. And then I went to library, the bank, the store where I pick up milk and veggies, the grocery store and the farm where I get meat, all whilst toting the girls.

This morning I am so tired I poured granola into my coffee instead of milk. Oh, how I wish I were joking about that.

Going to pour herself a less chewy cup***,
ephelba

*Not So Evil Stepmom.
**His truck needs some muffler work.
*** Of course I drank it! I couldn't waste a whole cup, now, could I.