I stuck my head into my daughter’s room. She was lying in bed, bleary-eyed but awake.
“Are you going to bring your radio down so we can listen?” I asked.
“Oh yeah!” she exclaimed, leaping out of bed. “I forgot!”
The buttons stick on the old radio, so I had to jab at them with a blue colored pencil to get to the right station.
Too jittery to sit down and listen with the rest of the family, I walked around the kitchen, dust cloth in hand, swiping at the window sills and picture frames. I avoided their eye contact, too, suddenly overcome with shyness by the too-large sound of my voice. But when the music swelled up under my words, I couldn’t contain the big grin that threatened to split my face. I could totally get used to having back-up music play whenever I talk.
This week’s column was about berry cobbler.
Some of the comments are quite hilarious (and inspiring). I especially liked it that engineers were dissecting the fort, trying to figure out how they built it.
This same time, years previous: a birth story