Waking up to a temperature under sixty degrees (that's Fahrenheit, exotic foreign readers) feels like God looking right into my window and saying, "I see you. Here is a gift for all of your troubles." Especially after a season of maneuvering a toddler and her stroller/tricycle/wagon up and down two flights of very steep, very narrow stairs on our way to and from very hot, very sticky excursions. It's just, I'm just. It's been so hot. 

We slept with the window open last night. I'm writing this in bed, wrapped up in Brown Blanket - Purple Blanket is in Joe's crib, thank you for asking I'll send your regards - drinking coffee and smelling the air and savoring not being depressed. Everything felt grey for about two weeks, and the only reason I can sort of measure the time is because it started shortly after Joe's second birthday at the end of August and started to dissipate a few days ago. 

It was a lot of things, and it was no one thing - you know, I know you know. My brain just forced its own fallow period out of self preservation. Anyway, this drop in temperature feels like a "Welcome back" from the universe and everything is all about me et cetera.