Wobbly Steps
This house is full of wobbly steps these days. Literal ones, in the form of my walking one year old who melts me with her hazel eyes and determination and the occasional casual THUMP as she lands on her little butt, gets up, and starts toddling off again. But there are more wobbly steps. Like me trying to clean the kitchen while avoiding the painful infection on the sole of my foot where an infected splinter punishes me for walking barefoot in the garden in one of the sunny days last month. Wobbly steps as D and I try to navigate the piles of junk in our attic because, as hard as I've been trying, I just can't clear it out. And every time I organize it (or, you know, take TEN GARBAGE BAGS to the kringloop in one week), it still spreads out again. Or I undo my previous organization so that I can move all of D's super cool, super manly power tools to a new storage room, and never put away what I moved out of that storage room. Wobbly steps as my big boy Pippin rides on