Boychild woke up with a sore throat this morning. We haven’t had a sick day in ages.
Although he clearly has a cold, he’s not miserable or feverish.
Outside, the sky is blue and the chirping of the sparrows is soporific. The dog snoozes in our bedroom, happy to have her people at home. I practice a new song on the guitar, and don’t quite get it, but I will next time. We glue another layer on the pinata.
I make him spaghetti jaffles with the old black jaffle iron. We talk about this and that and he chatters his mad ten-year-old chatter. He flashes his toothy grin.
This day is a gift.
