even my heart

Instead of writing my blogpost this morning I got my back scratched. It’s a lot better. Some things are better than thinking and writing, and a backscratch is one such. All of which goes to show that passive can be better than active, doesn’t it. 

Upon first moving in, we slept in the Beck bedroom, then last summer when Joe was here we gave him this bedroom and moved to the Bay bedroom. But last night we slept in the Beck bedroom because Tass and Jeremy are asleep in the Bay bedroom, and we are being quiet because C1C2 are asleep on mattresses on the living room floor. So, life is especially good this morning.

On my bedside table in this bedroom is a picture, a little picture of one of my girls. She must be about five years old. Or maybe nine. Wearing a kimono and with her right hand holding a Japanese umbrella over her left shoulder, her head is turned to the right and she's looking at me. I have three girls, all three of my girls have the same dark brown hair, not my black hair but my brother’s beautiful dark brown hair. My mother’s hair was black, and mine. Walt’s hair, well, I call it “Gentry brown” but it may have come from the Weller side, come to think of it, my father’s sister Ruth had dark brown hair. So does Ray, and so does Lillian, Ray and Britany's daughter whose first birthday party is this afternoon. 

At any event, pictures of my three daughters as little girls, I cannot tell them apart, and for the life of me I cannot tell whether this picture is of Malinda, Tass, or Kristen. And it’s not only my eyes, my heart also gets them mixed up. Sometimes I even call one by another’s name. My heart is like that about my girls.

Linda couldn’t tell for sure either, but we’ve looked again together and it’s Tass.

PapaDad