Friday, March 11, 2011


Willow is swaddled and asleep in the swing and I’m in bed at 7:15 p.m. I hold a warm cup of white vanilla apricot tea and an almost 700-page Polish novel that appears to be promising. It’s raining outside, so I can listen to the patter of the drops on the roof.

River jumps onto the bed to give me a goodnight hug, then disappears into his room with Mark. Burrowing under two quilts, I start reading the novel, and all the excitement, thrill and appreciation of a long, quality novel stretch out before me. I’m brought back to the joy I felt reading the great Russian novels – War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Chekov’s stories, collections of Russian literature.

After reading River his stories, Mark comes in to cuddle while I read. By 8 p.m. I’m asleep. It didn’t last quite as long as I expected (Willow woke up to eat at 11:30 instead of 1), but still, it was blissful, a dream like the one Torpid Trifling described so well.

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