Sunset at Rosemary Beach:
My porch, after a late-day rainstorm:
The entrance to my neighborhood, after a storm:
Zach, checking ye olde facebook:
The cat rarely comes indoors these days, and has found a new bed:
Mosca runs around in the morning:
and in the evening:
and even Cinza comes for midnight walks to the beach:
Little boy shares his new bed with Mosca:
and throws an EPIC tantrum and falls asleep outside the door:
We shaved Mosca yesterday with newly oiled clippers, on the closest setting, because of the intense southern heat. While we were sitting on the moonlit beach last night, he huddled up next to me seeking comfort from the distant thunder. I stroked his head and my hand came back smelling like motor oil. My heart sunk; it appeared he’d swum through a tar patch, but I couldn’t see a thing. This time, though, it was just machine oil from the clippers.
Not photographed: scrubbing all the floors on my hands and knees, the mounds of laundry produced by a family who always has sand and salt in their clothes and sheets, homemade bread (for once made by me and not by Zach) and father’s day lemon cake, the empty bottles of sunscreen already used up, the stack of cookbooks and sci-fi checked out from a library 9 miles away, all the little prints and quilts and knickknacks finally displayed to make this cottage feel like home, the pain and triumph of waxing my own legs, the ubiquitous damp swimsuits hung on the shower rod, and my sobbing frustration at becoming the stay at home parent, and not feeling so very good at it.