I woke up a little angry with Graeme yesterday because he decided to move us to a second-story apartment in the city. I’m not sure which city now, but I do remember crying and floating down the stairs at one point. Very upsetting.
Once I was fully awake, I felt relieved, like Scrooge on Christmas morning. I had whole new appreciation for the endless trees and dirt all around our house and in the hallway. I was grateful for the chickens in the bathroom and the trampoline in the garden. What a lovely place to live.
I truly feel bad for people going through this quarantine in apartments. It must feel like being a chicken in a bathroom, stuck in a box with seven relatives you love but would like to get away from.
The only difference is the chickens are allowed to go outside now that they are ugly, and they are DEFINITELY moving out this week. Chickens are nasty. But, like I said, I appreciate them. They, along with the aforementioned dirt, are the reason Forest doesn’t really have that many toys.
Forest is a bit toy deprived, and the best part: he doesn’t even know it.
He’ll go for weeks without playing with his indoor toys, but every day he plays with the following things:
- A little shovel
- A mason jar for catching insects and worms
- An assortment of containers for collecting dirt, wood shavings, and water
- A bucket for making Wombat Stew
- A bulldozer for pushing dirt into holes he has dug with the little shovel
- A pie dish for mud and rocks
- A red tricycle
- A trampoline
That’s it. That is his life right there. When we come inside, he walks past his baskets of toys, and heads straight for the bookshelves. So, really, all Forest needs are books, his blue boots (on the wrong feet), and going outside. As I was writing this, he ran in from the front yard with a pink rose.
“Look what I got! A flower! You wanna put it in your face?”
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