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Laundry Bonds

In everything I do I can find some beauty, even in something as prosaic as hanging laundry to dry. As I stand here this morning I am refereeing a game of freeze-tag that is happening in the driveway, and contemplating the contrasts in the clothing in front of me. One of the cutest things I see is the tiny shirt of our baby son, hanging right next to his father’s big shirt. What a difference. And yet, Phil’s son is attached to him in a way none of our daughter’s ever were. He has a special bond with all his children, but something extraordinary exists here, in this little lad who prefers Papa to anyone else – sometimes even to me. I think if he ever figured out that Papa could feed him, too, he’d go happily over to him entirely.
Even the girls have a different relationship with him than they had with one another. In their cases I think it is less the fact that he is a boy than the age differential. At the time Pippa was born, Glady was the age Pippa is now, and still too self-centered to truly realize the older sister relationship she would have. But from the beginning, all three girls (Pippa the least of the three) have had a protective, mothering instinct toward him. He loves them, and they love him right back. How long that will last after he starts walking and wanting their toys, we will see!.
The birds are singing around me, the sun is warm and welcome on my head while my feet are on frosty ground. Last night, as I brought in the last load at dusk, I believe I heard a Woodsnipe singing for his mate (bzeeep…bzeeep). Today there is a flock of suspicious sparrows in the mockorange peering at me, then bursting out into song. And three little girls laughing and chasing one another around the drive while they wait for the bus.

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