Yesterday was upsetting. I started to write that it was a bad day, but considering what I accomplished, I guess I can't really say that either. I trimmed the hedge around our runty (but charming) little pool, tried to clear out some of the bamboo, the ivy growing up the house, the bush that leaves a deposit of last years flowers in the kitchen every time I open the window. Then I gathered up all the clippings, swept out the pool, and hooked up the high-pressure cleaner. I got a lot done, my arm is sore all the way up to my ear.
But this baby thing. Lately there have been so many cases. People throw their babies out windows, hit them, hurt them, leave them to starve, put them in freezers. I cannot understand this. These people got their babies and I didn't. My youngest daughter's kindergarten teacher just had a baby. She brought it in to the class for everyone to meet. I was thinking it's no big deal, I'll go and wish her well, because I *do* wish her well. But I couldn't do it. I clipped, raked, cleaned, and when I couldn't stand it any more, I went in and looked at the photographs of my dead baby and asked the question I have tried so hard to stop asking myself. Why was I not allowed to keep him? Why?
I feel like Toad. The whole world is covered with babies but not one of them is mine. I will never find my button and neither will any of my Frogs, but at least I have plenty of Frogs. *sigh.*
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