Juliette put some cherries in my lunch the other day, and I had fun spitting them into the garbage can by my desk.
It's kind of an odd thing, having my wife make my lunch for me. Nice, but odd. The feeling of opening a lunch bag and discovering what's inside is certainly a familiar one, but it's not one I've had regularly in quite a long time.
I've heard people say that all men want to be mothered, that we all just want to be boys again. I don't know to what degree this is true for me, but the possibility that it is true at all is something that I find a bit troubling. Perhaps I'm overthinking things.
When you share your living space--that is, your life--with another person, every time you enter a room you will be met with signs of her presence. A light left on in an empty room. The way the sheets on both sides of the bed are rumpled. A sweater that didn't look good today. These things are trivial, they mean so little when you happen upon them. You may even find them annoying. Yet while this person is away it is the absence of these signs that will really drive home the reality of your solitude.
From a couple of weeks ago, picking up a to-go order at a Thai restaurant.
One of these days I'd like to try my hand at printmaking. I could probably handle developing my own negs even now--it doesn't take much space or money, and I have done it before, even if it was over ten years ago at this point. But to make prints you need an enlarger, and a light-tight room big enough to hold it and the developing trays. Not something that's really in reach right now. It's nice to dream, though.
A child's attention is a flighty, fickle thing. When it's in his hands, Jason will love an object utterly; it will bring him a joy that might be unsettling in someone older. But when he's done with it, it's out of his mind, left behind, and unthought of--until the next time he wants it. Sometimes his little accidental tableaux are surprisingly beautiful. I wonder if Eva will be the same way.