I’m challenging my desire for more. The default pull toward accumulation feels like an invisible foot pressing the gas—and yet, it seems impossible to shake. I want to crave less. Not as punishment, but as peace.
But also: why do kids love being wrapped up like a burrito? I remember the giggle fits I’d get into when my dad tightened the blanket around me until I couldn’t move. Tonight, Evelyn asked to be wrapped like that—twice. The second time bordered on a straitjacket.
Our bunny’s ears are loppy. From the back, his left ear hangs at 7 o’clock, the right at 5. Besides his occasional thumping when startled, my favorite thing he does is listen. One ear perks up like a satellite dish—hovering at 3 or 9 o’clock—and he just waits. So alert, so still.
During dinner, the globe on the floating shelf near the sink gets pulled down regularly. Not by me—if Dave’s home, he’ll reach his 6’3” frame up and pluck it down without the acrobatics I have to do. We pointed out the four oceans, the equator, the North and South Poles. It reminded me of that old YouTube video—the guy who danced in dozens of countries, all spliced together in seconds. We showed it to Evelyn, a tiny taste of the world’s diversity. Her question, though, kept circling back: “But why is he dancing so much?”
A follow-up video featured breakdancing. Evelyn was instantly hooked. The head spins, the handstands, the body chaos—it was love at first sight. We found a beginner tutorial and mimicked the moves, rocking back and forth, striking poses. We promised to practice again tomorrow.
Honestly, I’d much prefer her taking breakdancing over ballet, but a quick Google search didn’t turn up much within 50 miles.
In other news, I absentmindedly carried the full watering can to the front porch to tend to the ferns when I spotted something coconut-sized under the elephant ear plant. “What do we have here?” I said aloud, stepping down for a closer look. Sure enough, a box turtle peered out from the round brown shell. I told Dave later that maybe word got out—the bunny and chipmunk had it so good, the turtle decided to give domestication a try.
Two hours later, the turtle had vanished—like a polite guest who slipped out quietly in the night.
Speaking of the chipmunk: it’s officially off the porch. After a luxurious six-night stay in its nut-filled, spa-like sanctuary, I took advice and set it free. It wasn’t without challenge—he squirmed through the couch pillow blockade like an escape artist—but on the second try, he was gone. Back to the wild.
Alrighty, that’ll do it for tonight. I hope you had a lovely day. Take care.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 