Iris and I snapped a whole series of leaf colors and types today on the park bench, and the plan eventually is to do a whole collage of Instagramy-awesomeness but—story of my LIFE—it’s not apparently happening tonight. [EDIT: it is apparently happening tonight. Carl has been lured into partaking].
Not that I can complain.
Mostly because a friend stopped by for the afternoon, and then it was time to pull together some stuffed bell peppers for dinner, and then Iris was asking very insistently (otherwise known as biting my shirt) to go to bed, and then it was a freedom dash to the coffee shop for my most precious alone time to bang out 500 words of the omnipresent novel, and then, dear reader, it was home. To WordPress; to bed; to the marathon that is my child’s teething sleep habits.
I’ve realized that I’m a much happier person if I can do at least one creative thing every day. Actually, as long as the perfectionism is dialed way back, I am basically as happy as I am creative.
It’s good to know what makes you happy.