Friday?

I lay in bed a little longer and watch the light creep in.

Water, water, water.

A baby snail on the back of a grown-up snail, and my goodness, I think my day is made.

Wet slate.

I know that if I make them come outside for recess, they will just complain.

Another round of lemon bars. This time she recruits her little brother for help. He tells her that we already have too many desserts: ice cream, 4 slices of chocolate cake, and 5 chocolate chip cookies. He’s not wrong.

I drop a hint; maybe I shouldn’t have.

The thing about frying fish is that everything ends up smelling like fried fish.

I compose the whole thing in my head and then decide I probably won’t write it anyway. The point is: don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do something.

Miracles are scattered beyond.