Remind Me

Remind me that I feel better when I do this.

Remind me that everything is improved with a trip outside.

Remind me that the world is more bright and lovely midday when I step into the grass rather than tuck my toes under on the couch.

Remind me that all I have to do – ALL I have to do – is to get out of the way. To be silent and wonder. To ask the question and wait. To not turn my somersaults of confusion and anxiety trying to twist myself into already knowing what I do not yet know. To not justify my every action when they are all wrong because the only right one is to listen.

Remind me that it cannot all be mine, but look at what is.

Remind me that I would be overwhelmed with more anyway.

Remind me that it is the space between: the cool air, the ghost outline of a mostly round moon in the afternoon, the pine needles oddly tinkling like the sound of icicles in the spring breeze, the new baby-green buds born on the old dogwood branches.

Remind me that those trees in my yard have been there long before my comings and goings, my doings and not-doings, and they’ll be there, watching, long after. They are neither joyed nor dismayed by the antics of people in their yard, just observant.

Remind me to be observant, too.

Remind me to rest my face in a half-smile so as not to frown as I concentrate. I want to smile at what I’m considering, because if I’m going to frown, I want to do it on purpose.

Remind me to ask people questions about their lives.

Remind me to not interrupt.

Remind me that the world is spinning, and the ozone, and gravity, and revolution, and isn’t that all amazing when I remember to not take it for granted?

Remind me to stop avoiding what is difficult, because hiding it behind my back just makes it harder to hold.

Remind me to be careful.

Remind me to be purposeful, because so often I am not, and I allow myself the ease of being carried on the momentum of how-things-happen, forgetting that I have options: agency or complacency.

Remind me that “one day” backwards is “day one”.

Remind me that my parents are proud of the adult I’ve become. Remind me that I don’t have to act childlike for them.

Remind me that there is no rush. But also remind me to do a little every day.

Remind me to spend some time cleaning out the dusty old notes, files, boxes, and unused things. Remind me to unclutter my head, too.

Remind me that I want to learn to garden. But that I can start with something familiar like lavender or forsythia, and wait to tackle vegetables another year.

Remind me to keep the pen moving.

Remind me I’ll miss it all when I’m gone: the quiet classroom, the chaos when it’s full. The young minds shooting thoughts out in every unorganized direction like fireworks. Too loud, too scary, too much, and my responsibility to reign all that flash and fire in and make it into a timed, bright show, on schedule and in order.

But I already know that when I look back, I’ll first remember all that color and light and beauty, and I’ll need to be reminded of the slog.


Chronicling Summer 2016

I find myself, everyday, making mental notes to myself to record the cute and wonderful things my kids are doing that I don’t want to forget.

Things that are so cute and wonderful it seems like I could never forget, but as I have learned from going through the early stages with Maya, do slip away. The immediate day to day routine incrementally adjusts to include the new skill that the baby acquires until it’s another norm taken for granted: Of course Cole can give hugs; I don’t remember a time when he couldn’t!

As much as I love going to my job, I am so grateful for this time home with my kids, so I can SEE these small advances and take note. It is miraculous to observe how things really do change day to day.

Cole is 13 1/2 months old.

Maya is 4 + a couple months.

  • Cole just started hugging for real within the past week or two. For as long as I can remember, he has “given hugs” by turning his face so that his cheek is on your chest,  tucking his arms down by his sides, and pressing into you. But recently, when he woke in the middle of the night because of whatever ghosts haunt a baby’s sleep, I went in to pick him up, coo, and settle him back down, and when I lifted him, he wrapped his wiry baby arms around my neck and squeezed with all of his little might. I may have teared up in the face of such beauty and reason for living.
  • He also, occasionally, will give what we call an “Ahhh-kiss”: two people put their open mouths together while saying “Ahhhhhh,” like we each have a tiny dentist in our mouths that needs to check out the other’s teeth. (Maya and I have a whole repertoire of kiss types that we run through at bedtime: Butterfly kisses, Vacuum kisses, Ahhh-kisses, Cheek kisses, Surprise kisses, Herbert kisses, Fish kisses…)
  • He will make a kiss face and smacking sound when sitting alone, but has not put that together with actually delivering a smooch yet.
  • Cole is starting to experiment with how forks and spoons work. This mostly results in food flying off of his plate/placemat and raining down a buffet of treats for the dog hovering under his high chair, but sometimes he gets food to his mouth while using a tool.
  • He’s tall. He can get things off of all counters now. Move the knives and coffee mugs back.
  • He really loves lift-the-flap books right now. He will carry a book over to me, then turn around and back himself up until he plops down on my lap. So damn cute.
  • He says “Mama, Dada, Maya, Nana, Gigi” but not always exactly with purpose. For example, he says “Dada” almost any time he is expressing joy. Or anytime he sees a truck. Or a car. Or a cloud. Or whatever. And he yells “Mamamamamama” if he is at all upset. A friend recently told me that that is where those terms came from: Fathers are “Dada” because that is the sound of joy that babies make, and this helps fathers to bond with their babies, and Mothers are “Mama” because that is the sound expressed when a babe is in need of comfort. I can’t officially cite this etymology, but it seems to hold true in our household.
  • He LOVES to dance. He sways back and forth, marches his feet, and pumps his arms up and down. It is so damn cute. He will dance to any Pandora station, theme songs on TV, or even low background music behind the long list of side effects in a prescription drug commercial. Or if I sing. Or if he sings to himself (Da, da, da, da, La, la, la, la).
  • His absolute favorite food is frozen blueberries. And he can drink an adult sized smoothie no problem. He also likes beans and sweet potatoes. He is not too keen on salty or garlicky foods yet.
  • He smiles all the time. He is a very happy kid.
  • He climbs and climbs and climbs and climbs. And has recently begun to consistently get himself down by putting his feet first. This has been a big step for me as it means I don’t have to constantly hover or jump across the room if he’s standing on Maya’s art table. I know now that he can get himself down.
  • He can bark like a dog (oof, oof), tweet like a bird (a high pitched eep, eep), growl like a bear, and hiss like a snake.
  • He can play peek-a-boo himself – when did this start!? I don’t know! But I do remember Maya playing this game with my scarf when she was 15 months old and we were on our CA road trip.
  • He has 8 teeth – 4 up top, 4 below.
  • He has started playing with our reactions if he screams at the highest possible pitch. Usually in a restaurant. Hilarious.
  • As I write this, he just opened the magazine on the dining room table, pointed at the Ralph Lauren Polo model and said, “Daddy”. You betcha, son.
  • He’s gentle with patting the dogs, but occasionally hits and bites Maya.
  • He knocks on the window and waves bye-bye to Daddy.
  • He will run up to us, hundreds of times a day, and hug us around our legs out of the blue.
  • He understands:
    • If I say, “Where is your paci?” he will point to where it fell/he threw it.
    • This morning, he brought me Maya’s detangling spray we use to coax the rat’s nest out of her lovely long hair, and then bowed his head and waited for me to spray his light tuft of wispy hair.
    • As I made Maya’s bed after Sean took her to school, Cole picked up the throw pillows one by one and stacked them on her bed, already having observed the job she usually does in the morning.

  • Pushing her toy baby stroller is his favorite thing to do. But he will also happily push the toy shopping cart, though it doesn’t handle turns as well as her lithe sports model wheels.
  • He naps (usually) twice a day: Once at 9am and again around 1:30/2pm. He wakes at 6am and goes to bed at 6:30pm. The clockwork of his schedule is just enough structure to keep my day moving productively. I’m not so great with wide open free time. I need something else to build the parameters. I do yoga when he goes down for morning nap. Period. No wavering or justifying. No doing the dishes first. Stick to the schedule.
  • Maya is capable of everything. Everything.

  • I love the way she says “Okay,” when she’s satisfied with an answer we’ve given her, her voice lifting at the end like she’s checking an item off of a list.
  • She has had walking pneumonia this past week (low fever and yucky cough, fixed with antibiotics), and having her home with me each day, I have learned that she really enjoys making her bed, helping me with mine, and is totally fine with picking things up and putting them away. I did not realize this when we were rushing to and from work/school and leaving detritus in our wake of getting ready for our outside-the-home lives.
  • She enjoys pushing her baby stroller (with Little Red Riding Hood – a doll she “found” (thanks to Gigi) in a rabbit hole in a tree out by the river behind my mom’s house) along side my big stroller as we take slow morning walks on the Morgan Creek Trail before the day gets too hot.
  • She can name a bunch of different birds and plants.
    • “I smell honeysuckle! Where is it? I want to drink it. Oh, there it is; too far down on the rocks to get to.”
    • “There’s a redbird! It’s a boy cardinal because it’s red. The girls are brown.”
    • She can identify the plants in our yard: eucalyptus, black-eyed susans, rosemary, irises (“Like my friend, Iris!”), day lilies (“like Aunt Lily!”), dogwood trees, a magnolia (“Like my friend, Magnolia!”), crepe myrtles, and a bradford pear that “smells like dirty socks.”
    • She asks me why she has mosquito bites or needs to look out for poison ivy. I tell her it’s because it’s North Carolina in the summer.
  • She still starts to cry at any bump, bruise, scrape, or stub, but the meltdown is much shorter and she seems to be confident in her body’s ability to heal quickly. She also finds comfort in band-aids and will reluctantly allow me to clean any cuts with hydrogen peroxide (“bubbles”). Though she will scream/cry the whole time, she will hold her own arm or leg out over the bathroom sink so that I can pour it over her boo-boo.
  • She asks us multiple times per day, “What are you going to do tomorrow?” and laughs like we’re the butt of a joke when we make a fake-exasperated face and give her the same answer we already gave 10 minutes prior.
  • I am currently trying to talk her into a hair trim – my main line of reasoning consists of using the theme from The Little Prince, which the two of us went to see at Carrboro High not so long ago – a wonderful student production. We must take care of our own “little planet” – this can mean picking up and cleaning our home, but also can mean taking care of our bodies by washing, brushing our hair/teeth, trimming our nails, and yes, even our hair. I also parallel it to pulling off the yellow and brown leaves from the plants on the porch – it’s good for the plant, and good for your hair to trim off the dying ends so more healthy hair can grow like Rapunzel’s. Yesterday she agreed to do it “when I’m 5”, but I suggested she may have to decide while she’s still 4.

15 Minute Writer?

Who said that thing about needing to work 10,000 hours in order to be an expert in your craft? I thought it was a Renaissance painter, or someone romantic, but Google says it was Malcolm Gladwell, who is a very much alive and current journalist – does that make the quote less timeless?

Google also has many many links to articles debunking the statement. But whatever the origin or veracity of the measurement, the basic idea behind it is true: if you want to get good at something, do it. A lot. You know, practice makes perfect and all.

A writer in my prompt writing group opened her piece this past week, and I am paraphrasing: I am scared. Now to sit and do the thing that I think about all day. She was referring to writing. And I was right there with her. The idea of writing is a constant on my mind – a tangle of desire and fear, need and doubt.

Part of the doubt and fear comes from the fact that the writing idea is jockeying for position with other desires and needs: running and/or yoga, cleaning, organizing, feeding myself, showering, and perhaps most loudly, sitting passively and consuming entertainment via a screen. And this long list only gets its turn on the agenda when the children are sleeping or otherwise occupied. All in all, I have 2 to 3 hours per day to do with what I will. And I have been very grateful this summer as I have realized how rich I am with time compared to last summer, when my responsibilities included all of the above PLUS a newborn with no set schedule. The fact that Cole naps consistently and reliably, and Maya is at school three days a week, has afforded me possibility and autonomy that seemed a distant and unattainable luxury not so long ago.

Do I feel my absolute best when I am writing? Yes. Do I long for the process when I am not doing it? Not exactly. I’m too tired. The only thing I long for is relaxation, the end of the day, quiet, sleeping kids, and perhaps American Ninja Warrior. See? Even in my downtime I can’t handle plot or story. Just pure mindless repetition.

The leader of my prompt group, Nancy Peacock, wrote in a Facebook post, ” I can only write a few hours each day…” and I add phrases like this to my long list of “Why I don’t write today” – because I cannot give the time it deserves.

It is a common issue I observe with myself: If I cannot give it my all, I will give nothing. If I cannot do the project in its entirety, I will do nothing. Even when it is so obvious that just a part of the whole would be a big improvement in my life. I can’t make it to the gym for an hour class? Then would only running one mile and dedicating 15 minutes be worth it? Better than nothing. I cannot deep clean the bathroom with a toddler underfoot, but I could at least wipe the toothpaste off the counter, right? Better than nothing. That’s going to have to be my new mantra: better than nothing. Of course I can’t give anything my all – heck, Maya is watching The Lego Movie and I’m batting Cole’s hands from the keyboard as I write this – so neither the kids nor this post is getting my full attention, but hey, I wrote this, and it’s better than nothing!

Perhaps the problem is that I have it in my head that I can only be writing when I can dedicate a string of hours, uninterrupted. So therefore, never. Perhaps if I see the process as something that CAN be done in starts and fits – in 15 minute increments, then maybe I can build something. A daily practice, small bits of flash fiction, pieces of a larger story, a familiarity with my characters…something; anything is better than nothing.

Boo Boos

We called my little sister, Lily, “Boo-Boo” when she was a little kid because she was a total bruiser. Forever covered in Band-Aids and purple-brown bruises, she was banging herself up as she moved through the world, unphased.

When I was little, I was “Snuggle Bunny” because I so much loved being hugged, kissed, cradled, and soothed. I cried and cried if I stubbed my toe and milked the comfort and affection that came after.

I had always thought fondly back on this aspect of my personality as a child – I was so sweet, affectionate, and sensitive. And Lily was tough, obstinate, and brooding.

But we are now in the boo boo phase with Maya, and I am gaining a whole new perspective on the spectrum of dealing with life’s scrapes and scratches, bumps and bruises.

I know I may be looking a little too deeply into this as an indicator of who Maya will be as a person, but it seems like how one deals with setbacks, falling down, etc. shapes a lot of who they are. And I know she’s only three and this is normal for her age and development, and her attitude is nowhere near set in stone, but I do think that our narrative and response as parents is creating the vocabulary she will use when she has only her internal voice to comfort her after a fall.

When Sean and I were a new couple, we went to a Saturday in Saxapahaw: every weekend in the summer, the tiny but charming town has a festival on their town green with music, food trucks, activities for kids, etc.  We were standing and talking to a friend that we had run into (Hi, Jill!) when a little boy came racing past us and totally wiped out on the hill in front of us. My first reaction, and that of many adults, is to coo, “Oh, honey! Are you okay?” but Sean shouted out, “Nice fall, buddy! Great catch! Great landing!” and the kid picked himself up, brushed himself off and smiled at us, clearly proud. It was right then I decided that Sean would be a great dad.

When Maya was born, we agreed that this was the attitude we would take for daily bumps and bruises. Kids fall down all the time, and barring serious injury, we didn’t want that to slow her down.

This worked for the first few years. Time and time again, at the playground, the mall, the house, she would run past, wipe out, and Sean and/or I would barely cease our adult conversation to throw out a quick, “nice catch, kiddo!” and she would pick herself up, brush off, and move on. I secretly basked in the surprise of surrounding adults who were shocked at her lack of tears and sniffling.

But the last few months, Maya has been THE BIGGEST BABY about boo-boos. I thought at first it was just a ploy to get more Band-Aids, but now it’s getting out of hand.

I think it started when Maya was fearlessly running down our sloped, paved driveway in her bare feet. I love that fearlessness. But as she neared the bottom, she accidentally dragged her feet a bit and scraped most of the skin off of her big toe. Ouch! Yuck!

Of course, Sean was out of town.

I took her over to my mother in law’s; I needed an extra set of hands to help hold her down while I poured hydrogen peroxide on the wound. Nana cuddled her and cooed while I tortured her with looking at and cleaning her toe. Then I ran to the store to get Band-Aids. The kid was a gory mess and an emotional wreck, so I got princess Band-Aids: a desperate mama trying to distract her baby from pain and fear (and I really think her fear was way worse than the pain – the toe was pretty gross looking.)

Ever since then, the tiniest scratch has been a 30 minute cry fest. I remember how much I loved and needed the hugs and kisses when I felt hurt or vulnerable as a child. So I have been giving the hugs and kisses (Let’s be honest, I am still “Snuggle Bunny” so I am getting my fix on the affection as well), but once she has used up the available parent’s comfort reserves: “Okay, Maya, you’re okay; it’s not that bad,” she moves on to tearfully saying, “I want Nana,” or “I want Daddy,” or “I want Gigi,” and then we have to Facetime with that person to draw out the cooing and soothing time.

I look back now, and wonder whether it was a mistake to show how freaked out I was by her scraped-off toe. If I had just said, “Oh, that looks bad, but it’s no big deal,” would I have avoided setting off this dramatic boo-boo streak?

We have reverted back to our rhetoric about Maya being “tough as nails” and asking her what to do when she falls down. She still replies, “Get back up.”

I am hoping this is a phase, but I guess I turned out just fine – I still like cuddling and snuggling a whole lot; my mom jokes that I had kids just so I could continue to get my fill of hugs and kisses. And and I love that, after Sean puts her to bed, Maya asks me to snuggle for just a few minutes. Last night she said, “I love to sleep in your neck” and that is the most wonderful thing ever.

But Maya has always been tougher than me – and I don’t want her to be afraid of life. I want her to be more of a go getter than I ever have been. More like my sister, who also turned out just fine – better than fine. She is no longer brooding, but she is tough and hard working. She goes after exactly what she wants and she puts her strength behind it – be it intellectual, creative, or physical. In fact, Cole and I are traveling to NYC this weekend to see Lily in the season’s last roller derby tournament. She is Lil’ Mighty – part of the Gotham City Roller Girls – something I would NEVER do, no matter how much I like roller skates.


I Heart Eighty Degrees

porch Cole

I have no idea what the temperature is outside right now, and it’s still very muggy, but it is well below the high 90s that have blanketed our days in the past few weeks.

There was a big storm last night – the first one to actually spook me in a while – I thought a tree may very well come down on us. The porch door flew open of its own accord; I considered moving into the basement.

But this morning, it was cool in the early hours. I would have rather been sleeping – the storm and a restless baby had left me bereft of the necessary REMs, but Cole and I were up before most others and we swayed with the Ergobaby and coffee on the drenched side porch. Few cars passed by. We could hear frogs from our creek (swamp) and birdsong. It was the first time in a long time that I wanted to be outside. I appreciated that, even as my eyelids pulled down on me.

Now, it is later in the afternoon, and the air is thick and heavy with southern damp, but we are on the screened porch. The rain comes back in short reminder-bursts, seemingly in a steady effort to keep the temperature down and the trees bowing under water’s weight.

Cole is happily, lazily, lounging in a bouncy chair, and I am able to write. He has not approved of being put down the last few days. Maybe I can get ten minutes before he stirs if I set him down asleep; if I’m lucky, I get thirty. It’s as though he struggles with sleep-surrender unless his body touches mine, preferably if I am erect and walking. There is nothing sweeter. Sleep and productivity for me have been staccato.

But now, out of the omnipresent air conditioning, sinking in amidst the swoosh of passing cars, the caws and hoo-hooos (who-whoos?) of large birds, the breath of blown tree limbs, and the intermittent patter of rain, he is soothed: his senses, I imagine, engaged and satisfied beyond what a sound machine provides.


April 4: Discovery and Delight


She runs tree to tree:

Rainbow eggs filled with sweetness;

Spring peeks out at her

Maya Easter

A to Z Challenge: This month, I will be writing a haiku (sometimes a senryu – same syllables, not marveling at nature) each day save Sundays for the 26 letters of the alphabet as part of the blogosphere’s A to Z Challenge.

April 2: Between days: insomnia


Black windows reflect –

me. The light, on, shows only

inside. Uncurtained.

A to Z Challenge: This month, I will be writing a haiku (sometimes a senryu – same syllables, not marveling at nature) each day save Sundays for the 26 letters of the alphabet as part of the blogosphere’s A to Z Challenge.

Here We Go!

It is time! The story is changing!

Our house is officially on the market.

Outside 1

The plan was to do this last May, but as life would have it, things were delayed. And now, today, the house is ready and we are ready.

Maya has had a few meltdown moments of “But I don’t want to sell Green Home” and Sean and I have had our similar moments. This is the first home we have owned; it is where we brought our baby home and she has grown. Sean has never lived in one place as long as we have been in this house. It has been wonderful, and we are not leaving because that has changed.

We look at it and say to each other, “Yeah, I would buy that again.” We were sold on the private neighborhood (the house sits at the end of a street. Not a cul de sac, just the end of the street) and we have three acres. We can’t really see the houses around us, but it is a nice treat when, in the warmer months, my neighbor sits on his back porch and plays his fiddle.


Sure, with more time and money, there are changes we would make, but the things that sold us four years ago still make me happy every day – the wall of windows on the first floor, the huge windows upstairs, the wooden plank ceilings, the lofts, the deck and screened porch, the creek that runs through the back of our property…

IMG_0892 IMG_0907 IMG_0884 IMG_4967 IMG_4968

It has been such a wonderful home for us, and we are leaving it full of love and appreciation and full of hope that the next family to move in will be just as happy here as we were. It’s time for us to move on to the next stage, but Green Home will forever be our first home as a family.

Here is the link to the official listing on

Snowday = Pinterest

Our snowy front yard
Our snowy front yard

This morning, around 6:30am, I groggily woke up, put on my glasses, reached for my phone to check the time, and noticed that it was snowing. Not a lot, but it was.

“It’s snowing” I said to Sean as he began to stir. The snow was light and unobtrusive, and I really did not think that it would continue for more than a few minutes.

Maybe Maya will get to see it when she first wakes up, I thought to myself.

I got out of the shower.

“It’s really coming down now,” Sean said as I came back in to the bedroom.

“Well, it must not really be a thing, because I haven’t heard from school.”

I went about my morning routine; Maya woke around 7:30am and she and Sean spent some time chatting about the falling snow while I made coffee and smoothies. I asked him to get her dressed because we needed to leave by 8.

7:40am: We get the call – two hour delay. I go back upstairs and change from my maternity “work slacks” into jeans. Maya stayed in jammies.

By 9am, school was cancelled and the snow was still steadily coming down, lovely to look at.

Maya is pulling her "dog sled" - she's the sled dog.
Maya is pulling her “dog sled” – she’s the sled dog.

But after having THE WHOLE WEEK off last week due to a little snow and a lot of cold, I was staring down the barrel of another day stuck inside with a twonager and trying to avoid a Caillou marathon.


Well, I had pinned a number of “things to try” for a day stuck inside with a kiddo, so I supposed we would go ahead and try some of those things.

First, we made what I am calling “magic sand” but was really just a bowl of baking soda, some little bowls of white vinegar with food coloring in them, and two spoons. When you put vinegar on baking soda, it fizzes. This has been A) a revolution for me in cleaning the house – thanks to Pinterest and the 9,864,3993.78 pins dedicated to the hidden uses for these two common household items and B) cool to me that it fizzes, so it was sure to entertain Maya also. Plus throw in some food coloring (I kept it limited to two because it was getting messy already) and voila – entertained kid for about 20 minutes.


I count it as a Pinterest success.

Next, as I tried to gear her up for nap-time with a soothing warm bath, we microwaved a bar of Ivory soap. Again, science is weird and cool. It did not break my plate, as one commenter on the original site had said, but it did get way too big, so I had to keep stopping the microwave and letting it deflate a little before continuing.

Then, it broke up pretty quickly and anti-climatically in the bath tub, but I think it was worth it to A) get Maya in the bath mid-day and B) watch it grow in the microwave for two minutes.

Before it became a million little "clouds"
Before it became a million little “clouds”

I don’t need to worry about letting her stand with her face inches away from the microwave for that short amount of time, right? I didn’t ruin her pure-self for good with micro-waves?

She napped, I read Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I should have been cleaning out the fridge or filing papers, but you know, snow day. (Review: I’m really enjoying it. I have enjoyed everything I have read by her.)

Sean had since braved the arctic to go to the store. He said our neighborhood and side road were bad, but the main roads were fine.

I’m glad he went, because I needed Cream of Tartar (I have no idea what this is actually used for) for our post-nap Pinterest experiment: homemade Play Dough. And yep, I was drawn to the smell-good essential oils recipe.

Once again, I kept the options down to two – I only had two essential oils on hand: lavender and jasmine, so Maya picked her two colors: purple and green.

IMG_5046 IMG_5047

BIG THUMBS UP for this one. It feels so much better than store-bought play dough (at least than the off-brands we have gotten so far) and the good smells were a pleasant bonus.

Maya made a snowman out of the dough that was much more successful than our tiny-snowman-made-of-ice from our back deck a few days ago.



This kept her busy for a good half hour or so, and we can pull it out again because it’s storing nicely in an old tupperware.

All in all, not a bad day for the Pinterest solutions to cabin fever, though the prep and set up and clean up all amount to about as much time as the actual playtime – but that’s something to kill the time too, so win.

We have a two-hour delay tomorrow morning now, so maybe Maya will be just as thrilled with helping me clean out the fridge? Though I hope we don’t encounter as much science in there…