I'm back from Michigan and back from being sick. Fortunately, I got sick first. After my husband (who really needs a nickname--I'm thinking about referring to him from now on as The Man) got sick two weeks ago, I knew my time was coming; I only prayed it would come before I got on the plane to Grand Rapids. Thank goodness it did. By the time I boarded Continental flight 5122, I was right as rain. The turbulence threw me off again, but that's another story.
Today we get back to the routine. Last week was spring break for the boys, who mostly just flopped about the house in between playdates. It was a low-key week once I got home from Michigan. Everyone stayed up too late and slept late in the morning. We still haven't recovered from last week's time change.
Today, I start working on the book again--I'd written around twelve pages before the plagues hit our house; today I hope to reach page thirteen.
Last night Will and I sat down with the Johnny's Seeds catalog and made our list. We are going to be flower gardeners this year. The Man will handle the vegetable beds while Will and I tend to glorious foxgloves and delphinium. Jack will sit on the screened porch with a book and watch everything grow.
I woke up around 4 a.m. on Saturday morning haunted by the thought that Will is slipping out of our grasp. He got sent home from school the Friday before Spring Break for fighting. It embarrassed him horribly, but it probably won't be the last time. He's not aggressive or a bully, but if you do him wrong, watch out. So there's that and the fact that he has spent the whole winter playing family room hockey and not doing much of anything else. What has happened to my creative, imaginative boy?
So Saturday I got out the crayons and paper, and we sat together at the table watching "Tales from Avonlea" on DVD while he drew and I worked on my quilt. Saturday afternoon, I unpacked the puzzles.
When I opened up the seed catalog last night at dinner, Will got very interested. We made a list of the seeds we want to plant, and he said that today he'll cut out the pictures from the catalog so we'll remember what the flowers are supposed to look like.
Poor Will, the second child, the boy left to his own devices by his exhausted, distracted parents. It's so easy to engage him in projects and plans (unlike Jack, who mostly likes to be left alone to read), that it's a crime we've let him wither on the vine with his hockey stick this winter. We've led him to a life of crime!
But the flowers will save him. And the coloring. And all those lovely, irrascible folks in "Tales from Avonlea" with their old fashioned exclamations--"Fiddlesticks!"--that crack Will up, make him laugh and laugh.
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