March 9, First Sunday of Lent.
"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2014."
Afon: at the doctor's office, waiting for the nurse practitioner. He's oh-so ticklish when the otoscope goes in his ear, but in the meantime, he does his best to tear up the inoffensive treatment room. No hat, but he's very glad for the hood. One last check-up before the big flight.
His phrase of the week? "Beebee an Mama go ta Wells. Beebee an Mama go ta Wells."
Yes, son. Very soon. c:
March 7, Feast of Sts. Perpetua and Felicity, martyrs and mothers, patronesses against the death of children.
lonely balloon // wellies getting ready to go in the bag // empty hooks
Just dropping in to say that contact will be sparse for the next week. Cleaning up and clearing out, I'm reminded of when we moved in a year and a half ago. Things look much the same, but they couldn't feel more different. The space with which we were unacquainted--almost shy, like a first relationship--is now familiar. The walls have memories of our sobs and our laughter. The back room never became the nursery we intended. The drab, ugly kitchen that was my least favorite part of the apartment--with some thought on its strengths, a few pieces of furniture that just needed to be believed in, and hundreds of lovingly cooked meals--became its heart. I'm going to miss this small place, the big windows opening onto Meridian, the white-washed brick fireplace, and the light-flooded front room with the cracked red tile (though not the perpetually-wailing fire alarm, the broken dishwasher, and inconvenient parking). It's time to meet and make a new home.
If we make our way back to this side of the world for good, next time I think we'll skip the renting drama and build a fairy house. I'm starting to think that's not a bad idea, regardless of where we land on this spinning ball of rock and water.