"Someone left the stroller out in the rain...."
Okay, I'm not really going to make you listen to that old song, MacArthur Park. Jimmy Webb, Richard Harris--even Donna Summer lamented losing the time involved in making that soggy cake and subsequent loss of the recipe. But it came to mind this morning when Joe went out to get the car and popped his head back in, with an utterly confused look on his face. Sometime during the night, someone had taken our old-school jogger stroller off our porch and left it in the middle of the driveway. It stands on the porch now, soaking wet.
Let me just say, now, that if you wondered why we used to be religious about locking up the jogger: this is why.
Strange happenings. We leave the porch light on? Kiddo wakes up at three, yelling up to us "Mama! Daddy! Time to get up! There is light outside!" Porch light off? Wet, soaked jogger. Who would do such a thing? I'm guessing someone who thought they needed it for something. But what?
It's been more than two weeks now since we've moved Kiddo downstairs to his new bed, and life is looking up. Most nights, I get to sleep the entire night through now. So the 'cranky' factor in the house has noticeably decreased. I've always been a need-my-eight-hours sort of person, long before I had kids. We are all enjoying the more well-rested me.
Still, things seem a little off the past couple days. Little things. I posted a sweet something about Kiddo on Wednesday, and commented on another mama blog: now the post and comment are both gone. (Sorry Robyn...your sleepovers sounded much better than mine at that age.) I'm not paranoid; I think it was either a Blogspot or computer error. But weird. Outdoors, Obi-Robin and his hen have lost all of their chicks to crows. Kiddo and I saw one of the raids on the nest, and it was the first time I'd been upset with a crow in a while-- I was even more upset than last year, when they stripped our cherry tree. (They were not to blame, though, the netting should have been on it. Human error.) Kiddo's been asking some questions about it; we watched the crow carry off one of the chicks, and the other flew down out of the nest at the time, to land in a big patch of bleeding heart. I checked later to see if the chick had moved on; it had. But as I worked in the backyard that evening, doing some hand-mowing around the peas with a sickle, the drama continued. Mama and Obi-Robin pipping and cheeping loudly at the crow... the chick and mother would fly off first, the crow chasing them, Obi-Robin trailing behind. Lots of fracas and then it was quiet.
The strangest thing, though, is how lazy this Sunday has been. It was my morning to sleep in, and the raindrops on the roof were the best 'get back to sleep' aid going. Toodling downstairs at 8:15 with my pile of socks (always tossed to the floor after an hour in bed or so, then forgotten until the weekly Big Sock Roundup), I came down just in time for Joe to discover the stroller as they were heading out to Trader Joe's. Time to gaze out the window at the patch of bluebells, at the raspberries now so high they've blocked off any view of the rat and mouse holes at the base of the garage. (If I can't see them, they don't exist, right?) Time to check on the Mamaworldforum and see what everyone else in the world is getting their knickers in a twist about. We've had time to eat a lovely breakfast in relative peace, time for a conversation with my sweet sister Amanda, and time to make a horn for my little Kiddosaurus to wear. He told me at breakfast "I'm going to eat so much bread, I'll have a crust on my head". What he really meant was 'crest', not 'crust', and once I figured out he was trying more to resemble a parasauralophus and not a loaf of pugliese, we were in gear. "I have that crust for protection." he tells me. "Mama, we're going to invite me cousins over today." Ah, yes, his "meat-eating cousins", as he quotes from Virginia Lee Burton's "Life Story".
So, soon, I'll finish my tea and ready myself to make hay, so to speak. There's housecleaning to do, a horn to adjust (I've just been told), soup to be made so that we can finish the aforementioned pugliese, about an hour of filing or so waiting on my desk upstairs and somewhere in my day, time for beer and a game of cribbage and a nice drink for me and my guy. This, for me, is a lazy Sunday. Glad it's raining, for some reason. Me? Glad it's raining? Now, isn't that strange?