Take me to the river.

Nora , me and some very aggressive minnows.

There were a couple of rather healthy nips among the nibbles, at least on my fingers. Those lines of rocks create several good-sized, slow-flowing shallow pools perfect for three-year-old exploration.

The weather was miraculously temperate. We drove through a line of thunderstorms around Kerrville and emerged on the other side at Junction and South Llano River State Park. It was cloudy at first, but of course the water was warm, and in the middle of July in South Texas the temperature didn’t rise above 80° all day. Also, because of the ominous weather earlier, the river was beautifully uncrowded.

Unabashed toddler spam

Photogenic child, talented husband.

My rock, my bird

We’ll be okay, I know.

Irises

Thank you, JPolly. They are almost as lovely as you.

These boots were made for walking.

And thanks to the patience and persistence of the Quiet Man (aka Grandpa Bob), that’s just what they’ll do.

done

Nora’s normal.

Whatever that means, particularly as applied to any offspring of mine. To be more specific, her brain is normal (although mine may be permanently stewed by the last week month year of anxiety), according to the MRI, Dr. T., and a collection of other initials too numerous to mention.

Whew.

I have become a big puddle of emo goo.

At the mall today they had the Angel Tree set up – you know, the thing where you pick a kid’s name, get some basic info, and deliver some presents back to the Tree for the Salvation Army to deliver. We do it every year; generally he gets one and I get one because we forget to tell each other about it. Last year I don’t remember what we did… anyway, today I grabbed a four-year-old named Jessica who likes Dora the Explorer (imagine that) and wants a baby stroller (I assumed that was for a doll and not for herself). Then I went to Target to shop, and went a little overboard.

Aging gracefully?

Or seething all the way?

Strange, I’ve been thinking about the exact same thing lately (except that my eyesight has always been wretched more than a foot in front of my nose, so when I start to become farsighted I’ll be Mr. Magoo).

I have to say that so far the only thing that truly bothers me about getting older is how old my mother is now… that’s how old my grandmother is supposed to be. I will now stop pursuing that line of thought before its inevitable conclusion. Damn. Too late. Moving on.

So here’s my plan for the four-oh and beyond: I’m going to think of my forties as my Mrs. Robinson years. I don’t want to seduce a college student – but I want to look (and feel) as if I could. For me, this means getting serious about getting healthy, which means exercise. I’ve got good skin, thanks to genes and a lifelong photophobia. Now I need a waist again.

(later) Made cranberry relish and now Cyrano is on TCM – the house is asleep and the cold front finally came in. What could be better?

 

Damn I’m tired.

A good day, a long day, and a done day. Wrote one bit of silliness, one bit of pissiness, and have some news… for tomorrow.

Ahhhhhh.

A lovely day.

1. We had lunch at Las Canarias on the river.
2. Michael Clayton is one of the best movies I’ve seen in ages.
3. From fine dining to lifelong tradition: bean and cheese tacos from Las Palapas.

And thank you for all the e-mails, cards and birthday wishes. Polly, you’ll get yours tomorrow.