Sun

The sky's split only by the fine white stripe left by a passing plane (or planes, we're part of the flight pattern here) and not, today, by rain. I like rain, usually. I like warm lamp-light and tea and the clatter on the skylight. I even like going out in it. One can't go play in the rain, though, with a not-quite-five-month-old, whether she comes from hardy midwestern stock or not. We've been mooning around the windows, Anna and I, both of us somewhat fractious. She's chewed on every movable thing in the house. I've read and reread whatever's in reach of wherever I happen to sit down to feed her. She's played on her tummy, on her back, in her rainforest mat, in the yellow rubber seat with the tray for toys that unfortunately slants away from her and quickly shoots everything just out of arms' reach, we've played airplane and read books and chewed on books and she's chewed on me and I've chewed on her. We've wandered from room to room. We've built obstacle courses with pillows. She's scooted herself in semicircles around the rug. She's sucked her thumb and stared fiercely around. I've worked very hard to make her laugh and discovered that she won't laugh at the same joke twice, so I find myself in increasingly ridiculous positions making increasingly ridiculous noises and faces, while she gazes bemusedly at me and kicks her legs. Today though, today the sky is mostly (besides the plane stripe which is smudging out as I type) blue, blue, blue. A good day to go try the swings in the playground. She's sleeping now, and I (almost) can't wait until she wakes up.