Hey

Another wild spring week. . .

As I was tearing about yesterday (with a soundtrack of Q howling in his carseat), I saw such beautiful sights. The sun slanting through clouds, lighting everything up like a Robert Duncan painting. Seriously, the fields, the livestock, the snow on the foothills, the rain/snow sheeting down against said foothills. Awesome. There was somethings lovely on the radio (which I could almost hear over Q) and suddenly, just to my right, a bald eagle, a golden eagle, then another bald eagle, wheeling and diving, no doubt into some little prey in the middle of the glowing green pasture. The clouds were reflecting blushy pink cherry trees, the wet road reflecting either the grey/periwinkle/gold/peach clouds or the astonishing blueness of the sky, depending on the angles.

It's really odd to feel such a vast, spreading appreciation of all that is to be visually drunk up, while being serenaded by one unhappy baby.

Yesterday we saw the dentist (K is the only one with cavities, poor thing, but hooray for everyone else), came back here for the Special Ed teacher's visit, went off again to piano lessons, out to the therapy unit for adjustments to Q's chair, home for what I thought was a phone conference (but it's not until next week), then out again to pick up kids while my mom stayed with the finally sleeping Q and awaited the towing guy for her car which had thoughtfully died just at the mailbox, entailing only a short walk down the hill home for her. (I think I deserve some sort of reward for run-on sentences, don't you? Or perhaps I'll top that one.)

Tonight we're going to finish the last of Rilla of Ingleside for bedtime story, then pop up early in the morning to head off for Q's neuro appointment. I'm planning to ask for something to help the guy sleep, since I figure I can only ricochet around in my head for so long before I officially lose it. Of course, having said that, a mama does what a mama must.

I'm recommending an author. Note that it's not a book recommendation, but an author recommendation. Martha Beck rocks. She's the smartest, funniest, most compassionate, life coach-iest person ever, all rolled into (printed onto) pages, bound together into those things called books. I first read Expecting Adam before finding out that I was pregnant with Q, a move which I can only think of as the hand of God, since the memory of that book played a huge role in my remaining somewhat sane throughout that experience. Anyway. I think you'd like her. Try any of her books. I'm hoping she lives to be a hundred and forty-three, just so I can be sure that she'll still be writing until I don't need her to keep publishing regularly, since I don't know if I could afford her private rates. Of course, I'm sure her family would like to keep her around forever, too, but really, the public's needs must come first. I mean, c'mon.

I'm off to read about Rilla.

Happy Spring.