Tonight I'm feeling manageably frazzled. Like, busy but productive, tired but accomplished, overwhelmed by the children but fully amused by them. Which is a preferable state to some of the grayer days I've had of late. Those days that feel like someone shut your storm window and nailed a dirty screen in front of it for good measure. You want to see the horizon, you want to feel the fresh air, but you can't quite do either.
I'm drinking a lovely glass of Italian red wine. The bottle is nearing the ten year mark, and the wine's woody tannins hug my tongue like a corset you willingly wear. A salad of roasted butternut squash with allspice, lentils cooked with a bay leaf, and crunchy-bitter dandelion greens stands at attention on the sidelines, waiting to be called up for dinner. It's studded with chunks of young chèvre and has yet to be dressed. I'm thinking about that and what best suits it.
Jack is reading, Ol is tucked in bed. It's early but they are still so tired from the Halloween-Daylight Savings weekend. You'd think a zombie apocalypse struck our home. I don't know why they're so sensitive and susceptible to minute time differentials, but they are.
They have, this afternoon, vacillated between hyenic laughter and snotting tears. They adore and despise each other. They chase and pants each other and think that's both hilarious and worthy of the rack. Jack suggested that Oliver was a "premium anus." Oliver demurred but then seemed to cotton to it.
You just never know.
I finished planting all my spring bulbs, saw some good friends, and thought about how much I'm enjoying tennis. Mostly, though, I thought about how grateful I am for the blue days on which the sun shines bright, for the strength and sense of self I've secured after years of devoted spelunking, and for the people I've encountered along the way who like that unearthed self just fine.