It seems like California is fading from my mind, and that's not so. It's just that I can never resist telling a tale on myself:
Last night I both babysat and traumatized my granddaughter Robyn. She and I were about to have dinner---lasagna made by her dad and mini-croissants made by the devil---and I picked her up to help her get into her plastic high chair. She was enthusiastic and in her joy,she put both her legs in the same small space instead of one in each. She was crowded, uncomfortable and outraged. Right from the get-go, she was upset. She expressed that by crying and pressing her legs together and looking incredibly like someone tricked by a big bully. I tried to help her relax--didn't work; I tried to show her how to bend her knee--no go; I took the chair, bent it forward to the floor and tried to help her crawl out---it just got worse. I put the chair upright and tried to talk her through getting her leg out, then I tried to pull her out by standing behind her and tugging upwards.Poor poppet just got stuck at the knee so that she was wailing and I, between promising that everything would be all right and crying like the baby she is, envisioned us both lying on the floor, both starving, me trying to help her sleep, until her mother came home.
I was just getting ready to call Morgan or Dave and wondering if chocolate would help, when I thought of bending the chair to the floor backwards and she pushed herself out and climbed right back in and ate all her dinner.
This isn't a picture of her taken last night, but it could have been.
It's not a picture of me taken last night, but it would have been, if I hadn't thought outside, inside and around the box.