Skate Away.

Joni Mitchell's 'Blue' is an album I generally reserve for the leadup to Christmas, and for later in the day, at least, but something about this set-in damp cold that's sitting down over us this noon makes it right. The Toad's on the floor, playing at rolling over and gently, gently banging his head into the underside of the coffee table. It makes him happy. He has announcements. Explanations. Scores and highlights. I have half a headache from having been up off and on since 5, when the Toad first woke up. We got him down some, but AMR ended up feeding him at six-something. There is a fog on this house. There's a haze outside. We seek equilibrium.

Classic southern winter day on track, if the fancies have it right: at some point we should be low-to-mid thirties with a pretty steady rain. The teenaged Boy Scout in me sees Bob Smallwood standing on one mile or another of the Georgia Appalachian Trail in weather much like that, hollering out, 'It's a great day for Scouting!' Do what you will with the politics of that organization, but our troop camped in weather.

The novel, the squirrels, the planning for the spring, the understanding of solid foods for babies, the daycare, the naptimes, the sleeping times—maybe if I just say these things out loud enough times, I'll understand them. Too much to ask to solve any of them just yet.