We’ve totally caught on to Ellen.
She’s using us.
For our napping house.
She comes almost every afternoon, gives us about five minutes of cute, then gets a little cranky and gives Kim or I the “pick me up” eyes/arms.
No sooner is her naked, dirty little body settled in our laps, than her head hits our chests and she’s out.
Making it impossible to get things done.
And impossible to stop finding her absolutely precious.
Darn you, Ellen.
Meanwhile, I forgot to mention a few sad things I came back to. Our neighbor, M, had a miscarriage while I was gone. So she’s down and recovering. Ellen is still sick. And Grasshopper has a icky case of pinkeye or something.
I’m not certain which is worse, having to put the stubborn, gross goop in his eyes and watch him suffer, or having to put the stubborn, gross goop in his eyes, watch him suffer *and* hear Kim making these pathetic noises which narrate the torture that I’m so reluctantly inflicting on my favorite child. It’s like, could you NOT? Please?
So, this lazy Sunday finds us all here. Ellen, sprawled in Kim’s lap, drooling on her dress. Grasshopper, stretched out in my chair with tears in his red eyes, his lap strewn with candy wrappers—evidence of Kim’s attempt to counteract my torture. Franco, looking on pensively. Cath, napping along with Pattie, recovering from Sunday School.
And me, bringing the whole pathetic scene to you from my the perch of my desk…
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