It rained yesterday. A real rain. Not the half-hearted drizzle Southern California sometimes mistakes for rain, but the rat-a-tap-tap pour down on your tin roof kind of rain. By afternoon, it had cleared up enough to reveal a glorious sunset between the palm trees. But still, the cozy feeling of a rainy day persisted. And by afternoon, I was in love.
In love with the easy comfort of home. In love with the cute little piles of debris: baby rattle here, pacifier there, fabulously unmade bed, Melita coffee filter with its fragrant grounds, stash of watercolors and pencils, left over butternut squash lasagna with its vibrant orange color. In the middle of it all was my son, laying on a blanket on his tummy, propped up on his forearms. He’s building up the strength to roll over soon – a milestone often reached at 3-4 months. He looked so adorable, little tushie and little legs, struggling to keep his head and shoulders off the floor. And when he started to tire from the exertion and cry, I picked him up and we danced, and danced. On the rainy day, to the tune of flamenco guitar by Ottmar Liebert.