The gecko that lives outside Lauren and Rob's apartment.
It has been cloudy and drizzling all day. I don’t know if it makes me sound
dreary, but it has been a lovely day—cool and calm and quiet. I stayed up too late last night and
both of my knees ache today. (Th.)
I have an appointment with my
orthopaedic surgeon tomorrow morning, then Calculus I, then an hour and a half
drive to the new Fort Lauderdale Temple for training as a tour guide during the
temple open house—then an hour and a half drive home. Today is peaceful preparation for that whirlwind.
Brent had a colonoscopy this morning—all is well. He is still dehydrated and a little
woozy. He is kind of cute this
way. We watched movies all
afternoon and snacked on little stuff already in the kitchen.
It seems odd, as I reread the last two paragraphs, that two
people whose bodies are so dysfunctional can be so content, so at peace with
ourselves, each other and the world.
Brent was exchanging emails with someone and they asked him why he would
want to move to Chicago. He
responded that places have never been the destination for us as a family. We go where we are needed. A friend of mine has a husband who is
going to move the family to Alaska because he was raised there—and he wants his
daughter to understand what it was like for him as he grew up. She is from Brazil—and wholly
unprepared for a land where it is light half of the year, dark the other half
of the year and cold all of the year long.
There are lots of reasons why I do not envy her—but I think
that this would be one of the biggest reasons.
The rabbits are in the family room now. They
alternate between the kitchen, the patio (only when it is brisk and dry
outside—not very often—and the living room. Their cages take up a lot of space and their propensity to
shed (especially Murphy) has Brent leery of where ever I put them. I feel bad for Murphy. He is a lop-eared rabbit with snowshoe
feet and an undercoat of fur that a polar bear would envy. Oops (yes, that is his name) has tiny,
neat ears and tiny, neat paws, and short, velvet fur. He is eminently more suited for being a pet than Murphy—who
would love to be free and have some roughish grass under his belly to help keep
himself clean.
Watching them makes me miss Peter. A lot.
We have a raccoon that has dug a couple of burrows outside
in the fern bed, beneath a huge butterfly bush, and in a large plant bed that
runs the length of the house along the East side. It has also dug itself a shortcut underneath the fence
between the West side lawn and the back yard. Too much trouble to clamber up and over the thing, I
guess.
For a time there was a gopher tortoise that lived under the
canoe that Brent keeps for his fossil hunting trips. We took the canoe away one too many times, and he moved
across the street to an empty, wooded lot. I feel a little bit abandoned by this . . . I loved to watch
him as he trundled about the lawn, eating mouthfuls of grass as he
waundered.
Back to Oops and Murphy—they are what is left of a
four-some. They bump about, doing
their own thing for most of the day, sleeping in different corners. But every once in a while, I catch them
slumped over one another or face-to-face in a mutual you-wash-my-face-I’ll-wash-yours
marathon. Neither likes to be held
or cuddled. They will sit for half
an hour if I sit beside their cage, reach my hand in, and rub their faces and
ears. The cats make up the
difference, though. Especially for
Nathan—they sleep with him every night and spend a good chunk of the day
sleeping on his bed when he’s away.
I think he likes that they prefer him and his space—even though he complains
about waking up with a lump of cat holding him down.
It is still raining quietly and steadily outside. It is past 11p.m. and tomorrow
beckons. Tonight all is well in
our home, our lives and our hearts.
