A Bed of Clouds

This weekend you were unbearably sweet.

On Saturday we rolled you through the conservatory in St. Paul. You stared at the leaves of the Traveler Tree, at the wide open mouths of the lilies, at the gourd-like sacs of the chocolate plant.
The warmth, the humid air, the koi surfacing from shimmering dark--this is the closest we will come to visiting a foreign country in a long time.

You have learned to blow raspberries and you do so especially whenever I make an animal sound.
"The duck says quack"
"Ssssppppptpttttt"
"The cow says moooooo"
"Ptttsssssstttttppppp"
The sheep says baaaaa"
"bbbbbssssssspppttt"

Today at church you gummed the bulletin through "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" and a sermon on blaming God for allowing misfortune. By the time we left, you had ink from the Satan-tempting-Jesus drawing all over your cheeks.

Your sheets are covered in clouds.

While we ate frozen pizza, your father fed you bananas. You blinked your eyes rapidly and pursed your lips as though we'd given you lemons.

At night, after you go to sleep, we watch the winter Olympics. It is possible that there is no funnier sight than watching the figure skaters practice their routines off the ice.