This happened:
I looked over during the 8th inning, and found this guy. I don’t know when he fell asleep. One minute he was explaining a play to me, and the next he was silent. How exactly he ended up with his hand in my shoe, I’m not quite sure.
Around here, late October + Red Sox = late nights. I was sick last week and Colby was forced to yell play by play at my while I laid in bed surrounded by dirty tissues.
I loved this. Crackling fire, a good game, and my whole family staying up late together on a school night. Parents of teens and tweens – this struggle to get your kids in the same room as you – isn’t it exhausting? I palpably remember the days where my life was the exact opposite – when it seemed that my body was anything but my own, and I find myself wishing I had remembered just one moment of the overwhelming physicality that parenting young children brings. Just one snuggle.
In other words, I was pretty damn happy last night, hanging out on the couch with my kiddo.
I made it through the entire game, picking off chores during boring (or painful) innings and commercials. I folded laundry, set up my online courses, graded a few sets of assignments. Washed my face, brushed my teeth, packed my bag for the morning. I went to bed late, yes, but with more completed than on any normal evening.
A few other things caught my attention while I bumbled about my day:
Listen to this podcast – In #67, Back to the Start of Women’s Running, Another Mother Runner hosts Dimity and Sarah talk with and about some of the women responsible for OUR right to run. It’s crazy good, and will make you crazy thankful. Even if you’re not a runner, or a woman, you’ll appreciate just how much can be accomplished in such a relatively short period of time.
Also, read this opinion piece about the worth of writing and speaking.I found this excerpt particularly apt:
This is partly a side effect of our information economy, in which “paying for things” is a quaint, discredited old 20th-century custom, like calling people after having sex with them. The first time I ever heard the word “content” used in its current context, I understood that all my artist friends and I — henceforth, “content providers” — were essentially extinct. This contemptuous coinage is predicated on the assumption that it’s the delivery system that matters, relegating what used to be called “art” — writing, music, film, photography, illustration — to the status of filler, stuff to stick between banner ads.
Also, Jennifer Finney Boylan’s observations on costumes this Halloween season here.
Happy Monday, friends.
xoxo
from midnight oil 