In the Yard. In the Closet.

I find myself chuckling a little bit every now and then because I write in my dressing room now. I mean, it’s a room with three closets off the sides, built in dressers, a built in desk under the window, and it connects the bedroom to my bathroom. Mine. All mine. No boys allowed. I chuckle because Angela always, always insisted that I call where I wrote the library. Not an office. A library. Writers need libraries (that was her motto). I can’t very well do that now, because, truthfully, I’m writing in the closet. She would find that funny. And insist I call it the library anyway.

I’ve been slowly but surely making that little room mine. I painted the walls a pale blue. I bought a chair to sit in. There are curtains now, and eventually I’m going to put mismatched knobs on the built in dressers. It’s a good room, and it makes my life so much easier.

So these days I find myself either in the closet, or in the yard. Yesterday Jane and I had a dinner picnic on the patio. We don’t have a table and chairs out there yet, so we spread a quilt and ate on the ground. We ate dinner just us two, and then Jane played in the yard until the sun started to go down. I’m pretty sure she would have slept out there, and the only way I could get her inside without a fit was to bribe her with a bubble bath. She totally knows the difference between a bubble bath and a regular bath.

“Bubba bath?” she chirped on our way inside.

“Yes, you can take a bubble bath,” I assured her.

Bubba bath?” she queried again, emphasizing the word bubble to make positively sure I knew she didn’t want a regular bath with boring old water. There must be bubbles always.

So that’s how we wrapped up our day. Hours in the yard, bubbles in the bath. Thank goodness it’s Good Friday. Here’s hoping tomorrow is Good Saturday.

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