Here Comes the Sun...

Last weekend I'm laying on a hammock soaking up sunshine and this weekend I'm snuggling up to my microwave wife and yet to be sun deprived child. It's cold out. What happened to summer? I know it's mid-October but I don't recall mid-September, or mid-August for that matter. Somehow it feels as though it went from sun and sand to pumpkins in a heartbeat and none of us 'round here are very cool with that. In fact we all agree in this household, by a showing of hands, that this kind of sucks the mustard. You should never really get rooked out of two months without some kind of compensation. Sure, if the Red Sox can win Game #7 of the ALCS and stumble into the World Series and then quite possibly smash the Philadelphia Phillies in the mouth on the way to their third World Series Championship this decade that'll be plenty of compensation, but if they don't, well, let's just say we'll be pretty bummed with both Mother Nature and the Baseball Gods. There's no place in a just world for a Tampa and Philadelphia Fall Classic, none.

On a more relevant note considering the nature and intention of this blog (have we really demonstrated any kind of intention here, I mean, in any clear sense?) we've been watching Ella's little womb party from the cheap seats, uninvited I suppose you could say, although who really wants to party down in the wet and humid confines of June's womb? Not any of us. That's one party that Ella is required to host on her own. Lately you can see her kick and it's almost exclusively the weirdest thing I've ever seen, aside from that time Brittany kissed Madonna smack on the lips, that cruised the upper stratosphere of weird too. June's taught belly skin does this little rippling thingy that at first made me giddy, then settled into making me curious, and now almost completely occupies an uncomfortable place. That's little Ella in there beating the drum. It's like that little girl wants out just in time for Game #7 (and who wouldn't, really?) but we're oh so Guantanamo-esque in keeping her in there, as if we've sent her to her room before she even has a room to get sent to. I know there's a lot of development happening in there, and I understand via Sammy Davis Gamgee Junior the third and his "through the ringer" parents that those last few months are pretty darn crucial. I mean, who wants to show up at the party the day before it even begins? There's respectful punctuality and then there's the problematic...little Sammy Shepherd Elliott Adams Cooper the fifteenth can attest to the problems you cause by showing up for dinner at breakfast and so we know it's best for Ella to cheer on the Sox from her own little piece of occupied June...like her very own solitary and sovereign state of babydom. Someday we'll liberate her, our own selfish bit of Manifest Destiny occurring right there in June's uterus, but for now we'll just have to watch her beat the edges of her world with little clenched baby fists and feet and remind ourselves that as long as she's in there we're safe out here. Very Guantanamo-esque indeed, you know, except without the torture and turmoil stuff...that comes when she's fifteen and brings boys home.