Pens in a mason jar. Static from the baby monitor. National Geographics, mostly read. Trying to use up the green works spray so I can start using my home-made cleaners. Chairs facing each other on top of the table so the floor can be washed. Humid from the rain, ticking clock. There used to be a day when I was locked in my mind, begging for expression. Academic. Your daughter will respect you more if you work, they say. I say, I will, later, and shut up about it, and I know I'm a privileged little brat, giving away bags of clothes, the nicest ones to a consignment place so I can make a bit of money, because I feel guilty I don't make any, but I'm not willing to go to work, I'm willing to cut those things that used to matter out so I can watch a baby sleep, listen to her say cheerios. The garden didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped. Next year. I almost forgot I need to make hummus today: first attempt. Lemon poppyseed was the third, might be a sign as it turns out no sugar in lemon poppyseed muffins makes for a bland muffin. I wish I was back at the lake with my feet in the water, listening to those loons.