The Boy is off to bed, the girl is cleaning her room, and The Wife is in charge of making sure dingos don't run off with eiather of them. Time to think at last.
Today was clinically gloomy. That is, the gloom was more serious than casual gloom in the same way that clinical depression is more serious than casual depression. Cloudy overcast converted the sun from 'raging thermonuclear furnace' to 'that thing that barely keeps the clouds from turning black'. A misty drizzle fell on and off all day. Just enough to make everything damp and ugly. Reminded me muchly of my Monet (see below). In another dispiriting turn, I learned that The Boy completely lacks musical taste. The clue? I caught him smiling each time I started singing along to the radio.
My singing voice is less than optimal. I don't let it stop me from singing, because I hate the world and want to make it suffer in any way I can. When I open my mouth, appreciation is the last thing I expect. And yet, when I sang today, his eyes lit up, a grin cracked his face, and a minimal giggle was even produced. The thought that will let me sleep tonight? Perhaps he wasn't giggling in the pure joy of a child. Perhaps he was laughing at my ridiculous vocal stylings. We parents do cling to the slimmest hopes in these troubled times, don't we.
Tommorrow's big agenda: The Boy's 2-month checkup, followed by the weekly grocery shopping, followed by a visit to the local mexican party store. Vaccinations followed by grocery shopping. Not a promising scenario. If I don't blog tommorrow, you'll know why. If I do blog tommorrow, there may be sugar skulls and papeles picados involved. Stay tuned to find out!