I wrote once, quite a while ago, of the dream I had of my life before I got to live it. This year I slowly sewed that dream together. Then I ripped the stitches apart, or the sewing machine broke; I'm not sure what analogy fits best. Now I am stitching again.
He is two-and-a-half now. Babyhood behind, and at the moment the two littlest ones are in the grips of a nasty cold. But this picture reminds me of a happier time, just a few weeks ago. His drawings are nothing remarkable, but to me they look so clever, so beautiful. I loved to draw as a child, and I hope that love will make it through to my littlest boys.
Right now, the domesticity has to be eschewed for the domestic: the tumble drier is beeping insistently at me. Bottles need sterilising. Bed is calling. Floors need quickly clearing. But I thought I would write this first and remember that moment. Perhaps we will live it again tomorrow or, at least, when the stinking colds go away.