Fall has come to Montana, and we all know how I feel about the cold. I won't go into it here - not because I believe in restraint, or because I believe in accentuating the positive - but because we have five more months of cold weather ahead, and I don't want to blow all my good material at the beginning.
Maybe because your dad gets sick of me complaining about being cold, he tends to light fires in the wood stove that make the temperature in our house skyrocket. So while you may glance out the kitchen window and think, "Gee, it looks like Montana out there..."
inside, it's Alabama. In June.
You and Ella started out the evening lounging by the fire. You shared your oatmeal cookie with her, which was nice of you, and you came away from the experience with no fingers missing, which was nice of Ella.
In the end, Ella decided it was too hot in the living room, and you decided it was too hot for clothes. While I'm not a huge fan of violating your privacy by shooting footage of you semi-nude, I didn't want to stop you and make you put on pajamas. Why? Because you were busy picking up all of your dirty clothes in the living room, one article at a time, and carrying them to the laundry basket in the bedroom. I am not making this up:
Maybe tomorrow, I'll show you how to run the washing machine and you can be one step closer to actually doing the laundry all by yourself. And maybe you can tell your dad to ixnay on the inferno-ay.
Love,
Mom
No comments:
Post a Comment