The little monkey down the street is learning to ride her bicycle, and Ista does not approve. She likes monkeys with wheels. Wobbly monkeys with wheels who sometimes fall over? Not Okay. I convinced her not to bark about this, but she grumbles quietly and sometimes whines when the little one tips over. I suspect she feels that the big monkeys ought to be handling this better. (Push comes to shove, so do I: put a helmet on the kid.)
Every spring I go through a period of mild confusion when I no longer have to give the driveway wide berth and a lot of gas to get up it, when I open the door to get the paper or put the dog out and find that there is no cold out there to greet me. My hindbrain is thoroughly convinced that winter is the natural state of the world and everything else is an aberration.
Now: bread. Then: lunch. After that: short story. Later: symphony. There have been worse Saturdays.