Lying in bed. The least one got our granddaughter Hazel to sleep in her own room. After much play, both inside and out, Hazel dropped off in an instant.
I'm alone in the bedroom, which is rare. Always a child curled up at the foot of the bed, telling me stuff. Window up, slight breeze. Chickens making those contented chickeny noises outside my window. Their run is about 5 feet from the back of the house, so I can hear their happiness or even concern if a hawk is near.
Speaking of chicken...(must whisper here). There's some defrosting in the sink. Thinking of chicken salad for dinner. Something that requires little effort. I never speak of turkey or chicken in earshot of Milk, Nora or Anastasia. That just wouldn't do.
I feel like a hibernating bear who's just climbed out of his cave, rubbing his eyes, squinting at the light. Life is quiet lately. No dramas. No fires. Just tidying up after a full day, cooking dinner, reading and resting.
Don't need drama or fires. Ordinary days. No hard questions, and the ability to deflect those conversations that still crop up and raise my hackles.
I'm trying to reprogram how I deal with life. Turn away, pass my irritations over to the Lord. Much more peaceful that way.
But it's a struggle. I have feisty tendencies, which can be good *or* bad.
Must go. Cook chicken. Take care.