Look what Sherlock prefers to contemplate while preparing to molt!
He specifically requested to have the gentleman fox tucked out of sight, so I humored him there, as well.
I won't lie to you, dear reader, I'm nervous about this upcoming molt. Sherlock refused to eat a cricket yesterday so I know a shedding of the exoskeleton generally follows within the next 72 hours. I'm worried how he will handle it, missing that one little leg.
Do you wonder if I have anything to talk about other than insects these days? I assure you, there are other things going on in my life, but they rarely fascinate me as Sherlock does.
One ongoing delight is the weekly visit I make to Caroline's class to read a story. We just finished Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and next week we are starting up with The Lion, the WItch, and the Wardrobe.
I'm so excited to read this book to the students. I brought it to show them today and asked if anyone had read the story or knew what it was about.
One boy raised his hand and said, totally deadpan, "Let me take a wild guess: it's about a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe."
I still smile, thinking about it. You never know when you're going to come across pure comedy gold.
I wish so badly you could see the expressions on the children's faces as I read. It's marvelous to behold, very affecting. Happiness seems visible, tangible in the room. The children relax in quite remarkable ways. One little boy takes off his sweater, wraps it around himself like a cocoon, and rests his head. He's not trying to fall asleep; he keeps his eyes fixed on me the entire time, his expression changing with whatever I happen to say. He looks like one of the Lost Boys from Neverland. All the children do, to varying degrees, and I'm filled with a sense they are deeply content plus a bit spellbound, released into the wonderful world of their own imaginations. It makes me feel I would stay there forever, reading them stories, if only that magic would translate into their real lives, helping them get through with greater confidence, momentum, and love.
I could tell you about my slow descent into madness, otherwise known as revising my novel. I go back and forth on the propriety of calling it a novel. Right now I'm in that place where it seems foolhardy and presumptuous, referring to it as such. It's more a huge compilation of words, a stockpile, a heap, a hoard. I think it's called a novel when someone actually publishes it, right? Until then, what does one say?
I could tell you about volleyball, music lessons, or how to find the volume of an irregular shape, which is what Caroline's been doing in math lately and it's actually kind of fun, if you're into things like clues, deductions, and mysteries.
Or I could mention I've taken on the project of moving a few things around the house and painting a bookshelf or two.
I did this one today. Was it a good idea, painting the upper shelf in such a glorious shade of neverending green?
Who knows, but I'm positively smitten! I stare into its depths and imagine myself in a room of that color, an old, English manor with walls of billiard green. There I am, proper and demure, making pleasant conversation at teatime and looking like a vision of decorum in my elegant frock.
I imagine that for as long as I can stand to imagine it, then picture myself jumping up and exclaiming, "Who wants to play catch?!"
And with a war whoop I charge outside, my sainted aunt looking on in horror as I throw around the football better than any of the gentlemen dandies who showed up for the occasion, those insipid fops. When my dress gets a grass stain, I say, "Who gives a fig? Not I!" We play on 'til the light begins to fade and I'm forced to go back to the manor, back into the room of feverish green where I'm sent to bed without supper for breaking yet another whalebone corset.
Do I care? Not a fig!
If you want me to behave like a lady, don't paint my walls such dizzying, rapturous colors in the first place!