Flowers blooming on the hills, dragonflies and daffodils.

So perhaps I should mention that the possum is gone, thanks to the handy intervention of a man who does caretaking work for my father-in-law. Greg did what I could not, reached in and yanked the sucker out no problem, and charged us about one-fifteenth of what Animal Abatement would have. Greg: you rock. You totally rock, man. Thank you.

Also totally rocking was Cynthia's birthday party tonight, featuring a bunch of my favorite people in the world and some fairly hysterical video karaoke.

And earlier today, taking my gorgeous daughter to the superplayground in Libby Park: that rocked as well. (I sense a theme of some kind.) Feeding the ducks, swinging and sliding, staring and smiling at other small people. Using so many words with such purpose. She thrills my heart. I love the language I was born into, I've always been drawn to the beauty and versatility of words, so watching her discover new ways to speak her mind is . . . an experience I can't even describe. There aren't any superlatives or juicy adjectives that can explain it sufficiently. If you are a parent, you know what I'm talking about. Maybe.

I don't know about you, but I forgot what it was like to be 1.75 years old. I don't have any memories from then, come to think of it, which is too bad. On the other hand, I get to see it all happen again now with Genevieve. From the outside, with a wider scope to see through. Something forgotten reblooms in the back of the mind when I look at her and watch the emotions playing on her face, the feather-flash of understanding in her eyes as she watches me back.

Sigh. Okay, this is one of those "Felix's life" posts in the "baby swoonage" subcategory, as opposed to one of the political ones, or one that's chock-full of the linky linky love, or some psychedelic stream-of-consciousness rant of the kind I have occasionally been known to deliver. It's late and I should go to bed. But I have to come up with a title for this post. Ah. There we go.