It isn't that things aren't happening in my life right now, because they are. But there isn't anything really lyrical or poetic about them, so I don't write.
Having Hannah here has made me appreciate living alone. I ADORE Hannah --- would do, go, say anything/anywhere for her. But her things are all over the house. And we seem to always want the big TV at the same time. And when she watches a movie, she doesn't (usually) want me in the room with her. I get so lonely sometimes here by myself, but I also get very protective of my time when I'm used to it being my own, and it suddenly isn't.
My reading pace has fallen off a cliff. I got through Lloyd Jones' Mr. Pip in a breeze; it is easily the best of the novels I've read so far. I'm back to non-fiction now for "K": Mike Kim's Escaping North Korea. Scary, scary stuff.
Knitting is hit or miss. I've begun and then ripped out at least a dozen things because they simply weren't going well. I did make a pair of toddler socks I quite like:
and a shawlette/bandana whose self-striping couldn't have been more perfectly placed: