We moved, and things blurred into twinkle lights and frost, cardboard boxes and missing socks.
Life has slowed down, wonderfully so.
I started reading poetry to the boys at night, their favorite being Rudyard Kipling: the Man who is for men, and young men, and for boys who like wolves and the Sambhur bells. I have gotten the Owl and the Pussycat stuck in my head and they refuse to leave, and their beautiful pea green boat has haunted me as I search for my slippers in the morning.
Today I feel like I will die, just die completely, on the day I no longer bump into small kings when I walk down to the bathroom.
I am pretty positive, in fact, that my heart will shatter when Batman stops haunting my hallway during mopping time. You know his cape swooshes along the floor and helps it to dry. Never mind the footprints, they're smallish.
Somewhere in the past months of putting away and paperwork, I had lost the beautiful world that belongs to small children. I used to sneak into it whenever possible.
I think I've found it again, this magical place that Mother's spy into (if they are smart).
I must remember that you can only visit Childhood when you wipe your slate clean of agenda and settle into taking silly things quite seriously. I suppose that's my New Year's Resolution, if I were to claim one.
I still don't have the internet, hopefully by wednesdsay. So, my fellow writers, stop writing interesting things and changing your blog backgrounds, and making big announcements until I can catch up!
