I still do that, granted, when Stella stumbles into one of her cockeyed accidental smiles, or when J races in a precise circle in the backyard with a look of fierce determination and a mouthful of old T-shirt for absolutely no conceivable reason.
However, I'm starting to wear a path of oblivion between the front door and the warm space beneath my covers where there are no stinking dishes, no unopened bills, and no insurmountable crush of laundry.
This weekend I mowed the lawn just so I wouldn't have to be inside. The Woodside, she is saggin'.
So when I looked around this morning, at the balled-up dirty socks and the partnerless shoes and the dust-gathering mail, I had a tiny coronary event. Then I mustered up all my powers of denial, herded the dog out the door, and wrestled into a sartorial mistake before heading out to work.
Whereupon I found this.
Beautiful, spirits-lifting flowers.
Flowers in pretty autumn colors.
Flowers that smell of warmth and coziness, peppered with foodstuffs.
Flowers that weigh 15 pounds, necessitating a grinning, sweaty tromp from reception to the cubicle.
Flowers with superlatives I probably don't deserve, but wear with pride and not a little mistiness.
Thank you, LSis. I love my flowers. They are currently occupying desk space formerly reserved for this thing they call "work," which I've shoved aside in favor of your lovely and too-generous gift. You really should be too tired for this.