Ordinary days are the best days.
An ordinary day. My mom and I took the baby to some yard sales this morning. I bought a bag of Matchbox cars, a toy vacuum cleaner and a stack of storybooks for bedtime.
Afterward we had a playdate at the children's museum with some friends from daycare. The oldest was eager to rush home and play with his new yard sale toys. After lunch his grandma picked him up for a sleepover and I took the baby outside to toddle around in the backyard.
He can get himself in the Little Tykes swing now. He climbs in and pulls the plastic restraint up, but can't get the two straps to click into place. He screams if I try to help him, so I sat nearby in the grass, ready to catch him if he fell.
I flipped through the latest issue of New York magazine. The day stretched out in front of us like taffy, and I felt no great urge to do anything in particular.
Last night, after publishing my daily post, I cut a big chunk of chapter one from the memoir. Then I pasted a few new chunks in, getting a feel for the new juxtaposition, like a quilter arranging squares. Afterward I did the same with an essay that's received about a dozen rejections over the past year--scissored it up, and added space for a narrative in between the places I'd cut. I went to sleep thinking about braided essays and new possibilities.
Progress or treading water? Who knows? Who cares?