Started the pickup, waited for five minutes while it warmed up, stressed about the old, faded tires. Decided, with consultation from Emerson, my oldest daughter, to name pick up Clifford, the Big Red Pickup.
Gave up on the idea of visiting the community garden anytime soon.
Ironed a new shirt after removing seven small pins, three slips of cardboard, and plastic neck apparatus.
Looked at my wife, realized (again) how beautiful and smart she is.
Popped a pacifier from my daughter’s mouth, listened to her describe her dream: There were bugs in the house, and we were all together, and they were crawling on the walls, but we stayed away from them.
The other morning, like most mornings, woke up to baby in the closet, pulling back a curtain, calling Hi Mommy Hi Daddy Where Emmy go.
Missed my mother, wished she were around to play with the kids.
Missed my father, wished he’d come visit the kids.
Made a joke that made a doctor in a bowtie laugh. “That’s a good one,” he said.
Thought about the future while in the shower, made plans to buy lottery ticket.
Pulled strips of masking tape off an old metal pole.
Talked to dissatisfied person for 40 minutes in a low, scratchy voice—my customer-service-but-important-person voice.
Emptied dishwasher, filled it again with several sippy cups that had sea-foam green fuzz growing in them.
Hung flyers at a coffee shop, stealing pushpins from other flyers.