Something new in my view: the puppy sprawled out on the floor, scratching and licking himself, happily in a restful state for for a while. He was 11 lbs at eight-week old when we brought him home, now he's over 50. He's growing fast, faster even than my girls who continue to amaze me. How are they five and three?
I sit here a lot again in the evening, enjoying the warmth from the wood stove, keeping tabs on the puppy who has been known to chew toys, try to dig into the couch, and chew up sticks until the carpet looks like a forest floor. I sit in the comfort of the living room, no longer feeling like I should hole up in my office to churn through a chapter for work, because I no longer have an office. I dismantled it to make space for a play room. I have no regrets—just piles of stuff still, six months later, seeking a new home.
My old toy box sits next to me—in the spot once occupied by the baby swing—housing dress up clothes. A small bin and crate contain a jumble of hats and jewels a dance shoes and bags.
I'm constantly moving toys, getting new bins to sort them. Packing things up and putting them away for a while. I had just gotten things situated, and we had a birthday party for the girls. Now there are piles of new toys waiting for a home. I can't keep up. I think we should get rid of some, but the girls love some and I love others (and I don't ever really have the time to go through them to figure out what we're done with).
Sitting down in my chair earlier, I noticed where the fabric is starting
to wear on the top of cushion and where a hole has already formed on
the side. One arm is speckled with grungy black. Mildew? Oils from
resting my arm there? I don't know. I've had this chair for almost seven
years. It's younger than the hand-me down chair Brian sits in or our
third-hand couch. It's seen a lot, and it's still comfortable, and
knowing me and my struggles to get rid of things even when they aren't
tied to memories, I suspect this chair will be here for a good long