Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them; life obliges them to give birth to themselves over and over.
-- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
Wow. Is that what's going on with me? I was never that keen to be a mother, and here I am stuck with the big-assed (in more than one way) baby that is meself.
Oh. Oh. Oh. Not a lot to reliably report. Slogging slogging slogging through. Napping here and there.
Snow expected in four hours. The curtain rod over the bed fell down . I decided to leave that window exposed so that I could wake up and see the snow falling in my face, kind of. You know, how often do we have snow falling on our faces as we lie in bed? Not so many unless we have a sunroof over the bed.
It was not clearly productive, but it was a more enjoyable day.