I hope rain is good for a new garden. I fear, though, that it will be less than good for the opened bag of potting soil that I think is out in the backyard absorbing some of this sudden torrential downpour.
Jim has left for work, listing paperwork in tow. The house will be officially available for purchase tomorrow–I’m going to see if I can get him to send me some of the MLS pictures he took, ’cause our house looks sooooo cuuuuute in them. (Anybody want a house?)
Rhys, post-birthday, has sunk into something of a funk. He wants to play video games. He wants to watch TV. He wants, one presumes, some adult attention–a commodity in short supply these days with the eight million piddly things that must be done before the house can be sold. Needless to say, he and Fisher are less than bullish on the idea of selling/moving. They like their house. They like their street. They love living around the corner from Grandma and Grandpa. They love riding their bikes heedlessly to and fro on our untrafficked block. And who can blame them? What’s up with grownups coming in and interfering with something that, from their perspective, is going perfectly well? Isn’t that a little messed up?
So here we are, in the rain. There are things I could be doing: packing, cleaning, running errands, working on an article, finishing the card whose makings are spread out all across my desk. But instead, I sit here writing and watching the grey, grey rain. A little too sour for wistful–I think this mood qualifies, instead, as anxious.