Startling juxtapositions is us. Monday's post seems to have stumped everybody in the comments department, I don't know why, maybe because the bleak story of the nameless migrant farmworker selling her truck's tires to feed her seven children threw some badly needed perspective on your petty little difficulty with getting Mr. Sparkles to his grooming appointment by 10:00 a.m., hm? I'm speaking for myself, naturally.
Actually, we had a successful morning full of dorking around: cleaning, putting stuff we don't use much down into the garage, playing sort-of-nicely in the sandbox next door (someone -- yes, you, Shorty -- is having trouble exercising impulse control in the sand-throwing department). Jack came home for a sandwich, and after Jackson went down for his nap Jack persuaded me to have a quick snuggle and zzzz . . . . Out cold! Both of us! For an hour! I woke up in a total stupor, Jack brought Jackson out crying and put him into bed next to me where he passed out again. For another hour! Since my arm was trapped by his head I just grabbed the closest New Yorker and read, cozier than thou, listening to him snurgle. Then we had lunch and watched A Baby Story. My sacrifices must have pleased the stay-at-home goddesses because that, my friends, beats the shit out of any spunky-career-gal-with-great-boots-and-mad-editing-skills morning I ever, ever, had.