Finally written and posted:
The boy’s fifty-three months old post.
And now I have crossed everything off today’s to-do list except laundry. The bread’s on its second rise, and I have some cello to work on. Last night’s rehearsal was amazing but incredibly draining; with the fibro being the worst it’s been in two years, I’m moderately concerned about keeling over halfway through the second part of the concert on Saturday night, and no, I am not kidding. I think what will save me is that fact that the Beethoven is at the end on the actual concert night.
Cast on Devon’s wrap yesterday, and got two of the sixteen repeats done. I have to keep reminding myself that blocking opens up the lace. Because the yarn is thicker but I didn’t change needle size, it’s not open lace like the original. We’ll see what happens.
I know. I haven’t finished the boy’s monthly update, nor have I done the weekend roundup. They’re both energy-intensive, as was the weekend, and I don’t have any energy to spare at the moment. I worked all yesterday morning on a freelance assignment that was returned to me at the end of the day for revising (first time that’s happened to me in two years of working with this company) and then worked three hours on drafting a ritual that just about wiped me out from the amount of research and arranging and things like that. So, not so much with the journaling.
I should not be allowed to copy and paste the text of previous concert announcements unsupervised.
Yes, gentle readers, the time has come again to make plans to attend the 
Leaving orchestra last night, I walked across the church grounds in the dark with my hard case on my back, and watched my red shoes crunch into the frost-covered grass. It was the first real frost I’d observed this fall. We’ve had delicate crystals here and there on the rooves of cars and the edges of fallen leaves, but nothing like this. The whole lawn was brushed with greyish white. Each blade of grass was fully painted in sparkle and chill, lit only by the faint streetlamps down the block. Everything was still — there was no breeze, and it’s a quiet neighbourhood — and all I could hear was the crisp, gentle sound of my soles coming down on those blades of grass. It felt different than walking on unfrosted grass does, too; there was a brittle resistance to every footstep. And as I pulled the car away from the curb, the fan drew in wisps of woodsmoke from far off.
What does an inventive kid do when you tell him that no, he may not watch cartoons or a movie? He goes into his room, scribbles on the chalkboard, and says, “This is my TV! And this is my remote!” he adds, waving the eraser. And then he goes and sits on the end of his bed and ‘watches’ the ‘television,’ narrating all sorts of dialogue. It’s much more entertaining than the real thing.
His arms and legs are just so long. The sleeves of most new size 4 shirts, after a wash, are too short. And he has trouble pulling shirts off because the shoulders are a bit tight. He’s slim, though, so we run into a problem with pants that are long enough for his legs but too loose around the waist. And the feet, ye gods. Did I mention that his new winter boots are size eleven? And that he’s grown out of most of his socks?