A Burst of Warmth

Before any 5K or 10K or marathon or half-marathon, as the runners stretch or jog in place or tuck their hands below their armpits (if it's cold) or breathe slowly with half-shut lids or titter anxiously in front of the port-a-potties, there are always one or two runners who run back and forth beside the huddled mass, raising their knees as they jog so that they look like marionettes whose handlers got a little generous with the gin.

If one of these runners were placed into a pink fleece sleeper and then sized down to 24 inches, and then set horizontally instead of vertically, this would be you.

I think this metaphor got away from me. What I mean to say is that you have started kicking, rather furiously, as though you are on a stair master turned up to eleven (That was a reference to a movie called Spinal Tap. You should probably stop reading and go and watch that movie now. Followed by Waiting for Guffman and Best in Show.)

You have also become a fan of the exersaucer, which is really just a desk for babies. Today, while you sat in it, I crawled back and forth behind the couch. I would peer out from behind one side and call your name until your eyes caught me, and you recognized me, and you smiled. Then I would crawl to the other side and we would repeat the process.

Also today: a burst of warmth. And so: a walk. We stopped often to look at dark twigs against the snow.

Also today: celery and plantain chips and chocolate chip muffins at Emily's house.

For dinner: pork chops dipped in a mixture of mayo/mustard/fennel seed/lemon zest. And potatoes drizzled with olive oil laced with garlic, parsley, and red chili flakes.

Now: a glass of white wine and The Lacuna, Barbara Kingsolver's new novel.

You: asleep.

Downstairs: Your father, still in his work clothes, hunched over his computer. NPR playing and in the kitchen, pork chop bones on navy blue plates.