It's 7:00 (am) somewhere, right? Sort of like, it's 5:00 somewhere when one feels the need to justify a very early start to Happy Hour. Which, now that the subject has been broached, I could really go for one of Aunt Kris' Bloody Marys. One of these days, we will get back to the cabin again and there can be a post dedicated to AK's Bloody Marys. They're good. That good.
Anyway. Back to 7:00 am. Somewhere. Which would justify the fact that it is nearly 5:00 pm, and I have yet to get out of my PJs. Nope. I'm not feeling ill either. It just didn't happen today. In fact, nothing happened today. I sort of liked it. Not the sludge in my veins sort of feeling that's the direct result of planting my behind on the couch and very rarely moving it.
Have I mentioned yet that we're making an attempt at moving. I shouldn't say it that way. We are moving. The purchase agreement for the new house has actually been signed so it will happen. Eventually. We're building. Once the proverbial ducks are in a row, construction will begin.
Last fall, the PODS arrived. Boy was Channing excited. There he was in his PJs on the deck, watching every second of the delivery. Fascinating. You could just see the wheels turning in his little head. Mom and Dad just spent a week with us, Dad wrangling Channing and snuggling Sophie while Mom and I cleaned out cupboards, packing away all but the necessities. The boxes are stacked in the corner of the garage awaiting the arrival of yet another PODS when the time comes to actually move out. (Know anyone who'd like to rent our lovely townhome in Savage?)
The momentum was building, propelling us forward. Progress made her presence known. Then Sophie decided she'd had enough of being ignored for the likes of boxes, packing tape and cleaning supplies. She wanted attention. Undivided attention. Her resulting roar came in the form of another UTI that landed her in the hospital from Sunday through Thursday.
Today, we simply savored the feeling of being at home, coming back to the place where we belong. We read Hoopdink Not (Hooper Humperdink by Dr. Seuss). We made roasted apple chicken salad, Channing carefully stirring in each ingredient one by one. Sophie got back on track with her therapy working on tummy time, rolling on the exercise ball and having plenty of time with her books and eye patch. Since we were still in our jammies, WM made breakfast for dinner. Why not?
This post will now make an abrupt left turn as I intended to share these photos last week, and well, you now know why that didn't happen. This little guy amazes me with his love and compassion and caring. He wanted to carry Sophie.
We compromised with the Grinch.