Home Again.

We came through alright here on the Piedmont: I don't want to say it was any fun driving the '81 Chevy from RDU to 27401 last night in the rain, but we had no real wind and no real heavy rain until the forecast was safely bedded down with mom and child and deep into a sleep that held until 10 in the morning, a luxury that will seem exactly that once Edward arrives, the memory of which I assume will linger until well past the day she turns ten. Or thirty. Whenever one gets to sleep again—

We've cleared the serious storm here in 27401, though there's enough on the radar to send our hero out to the back porch to scurry the furniture we pulled from the laundry room out to the outbuilding. The story's boring; let's just say there's a shelf-like thing that wants out of potential rain.

I'm home. I have not been, of late. We did find an hour this evening to sit on the front porch and watch the finches try to decide whether they could nest in for the evening with us sitting there. That felt right. Felt familiar, felt good. These are the sorts of problems to chew through, I say. Come home, get home, worry through what happens then.