I don’t expect anybody to understand it, but I could stand out there for hours — and mean I have, I guess — watching the chickens scratch behind the piggies, and watching the piggies dig behind the goats. And here comes Molly, following the whole lot in her baby Carhart overalls with a bucket of pine cones she’s collected for Lord knows what ultimate purpose. Baby Eleanor’s in the sling along for the ride or, on the colder days, she’s fast asleep up in the house.
On a daily basis now, I find myself thinking very uncynical things like, “This scene feels like one long prayer,” and “Look how all these creatures can fall into a rhythm” and, for me, a semi-professional snark, this is an unusual and a refreshing change of pace. I think this means I have found my happy place?
Either that or the postpartum hormones are still leveling themselves out. Either way is fine by me.
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