after missing the last few days, I’m trying a thing where I write in the morning.

Juniper is in the cuddle corner, making sweet pre-words.

I will try to accept the scratches on the floor as proof of vibrant life, and the crayon marks, too, and the yogurt, splashed down the cupboards and dishwasher–stainless only if you bother to wipe it down–the tub is scratched, too, but didn’t they giggle?–and with it, then, the time spent on my knees with sander and sponge and lambskin mop, supplication: and then all the work becomes a prayer, and all the mess a godsend, and I should let the boy dig holes all through the yard, let the girl toss her leftovers to the dog–let him enjoy the fruits of his scrounging!–and I’ll take my wife by the waist, make love to her in a pile of unfolded clothes–that, too, a prayer of thanks.