Things are pottering along. Mostly things around me. The real estate process threw up a sudden hurdle, and even though I knew something would happen and I was watching for something to happen, I still failed to vault the thing and ended up on my face, where I am now laying, dejected, despite the fact that the realtor came and disentangled the hurdle and assured me that it is safe to get up now. No. Just give me the things to sign and I will wallow here until everything is done. Safe, lovely wallowing.
Home-ownership.
In the meantime, it suddenly became December. The boy’s birthday is just before Christmas, and we realized years ago that once we pull his birthday presents out from under the tree, we all become immediately depressed by how much shopping we actually still have to do, so we bought him a mini tree of his own, to keep his impersonating-a-christmas-present presents under. He asked me to knit a tree skirt for it, which I immediately set to doing – because even though I hissed at the lady at the grocery store who asked if I could knit her a sweater, I am still mostly a giant sucker when faced with direct requests.
Also happening: the hairy baby bird is becoming an actual birdy bird. A zebra dove, specifically.
A similar thing is happening to the human baby – in that she is starting to look like a child version of her eventual adult self. And talking. It is weird.
And my mother is trying to die of diverticulitis, which I have told her not to do. December is off to a dicey start, health- and real-estate-wise, so this weekend I am going to shovel tree decorating, chocolates, and rummy eggnog on top of it and see if that helps at all.
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