Growing up in California (…mostly) we didn’t get to experience many snow days, but I still get a little frisson of delight every time it snows. Sky confetti! Festive! Plus, in Portland there’s very little chance that, for example, it will snow so long and hard that roads will be unpassable and I will have to trudge through a mile of knee-deep snowdrifts to get to work. (This is especially true now, given that I work from home.)
Today’s flurries aren’t even really sticking, but I have the shades open so I can watch the snow fall. I tried to interest Happy Fun Baby (“Look! Snow!”) but, surprisingly, he cares very little about something he can barely see or understand. Just wait until there’s enough on the ground for snowballs, that’s all I have to say.
Actually, the little one is feeling pretty punk. He woke up every hour or so last night wailing like the world was ending, arching his back and kicking, only somewhat mollified by the usual panacea of nursing. This morning he fell asleep sitting up in the comfy chair, but every time his head tilted back he’d choke a little and wake himself up. Poor Boo. I moved him to the futon and he’s curled up there now, sound asleep, with a look of displeasure on his face.
My diagnosis is a cold, which is probably exacerbated by the fact that he’s teething like a mofo. During our Santa Cruz trip he was regularly soaking through his shirts with drool, and when we got home he got serious about the biting business, going to town on his various teething implements. The odd thing is I can’t for the life of me figure out which tooth is coming through. I suspect molars. I dread molars. It can’t be time for molars yet, can it? (Note: denial. Baby cannot be turning a year old in two weeks. Is impossible. Next question.)
The snow is barely even coming down now, and all the flakes I photographed have melted. It’s okay. I’m still feeling wintry.
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