A neti pot has been purchased. That's all I'm' going to say about the state of my sinuses. I am going to say one more thing: the co-op sells these neti pots at what has got to be close to their own cost--$12, when it retails on the website for $20. I just love co-ops. They embody everything I want to be right and true about economics, goods and services moving efficiently and humanely through society in a way that benefits the greatest number and improves quality of life for everyone and the earth, too.
Daddy Honey holds Atheist Church at our house while I am away at work at the UU church on Sunday mornings. By this he means he palls around with the boys and props open the front door to passively invite our neighbor across the street and his little boy over, and the house, for a few hours, is filled with chummy dude energy--lots of building and shoot-'em-up and games and wrestling and play pretend. Lots of play pretend: knights, soldiers, pirates, skeletons. It is a morning when the sacred secular is celebrated over coffee and breakfast of last night's shepherd's pie.
I worked steadily and in varied capacities all the day through, the kind of work that warps one's sense of time so that in between lookings at the clock, four or five hours are gone though. I came home just before dinnertime to eat a bit off the roast chicken that had grown lukewarm and the big salad that was prepared fresh just for me.
Daddy Honey has a big presentation and event tomorrow for MLK Day, so he was anxious about getting to his work. When a new SpongeBob episode had been queued up, he sat down with his laptop, but just then the boys bolted from the television, crawled in his lap and hung on his chair and pleaded for him to come wrestle. He was frazzled and stressed, and things melted down for a little while for everybody, but finally he packed up his things to try and squeeze in a few hours of emails and edits before the coffee shops closed, I pulled down the Keva planks, and after a little while we all relaxed into other things.
Woody told me just shy of 9 p.m. that he was tired. Remember the stack of 16 library books I mentioned hadn't been touched? He sifted carefully through them and chose three. Fox fell asleep before we'd finished the first one, and the last one, What Does Peace Feel Like?, provided the rhythm and structure for a long, lilting poem he told himself as he fell asleep.