Every morning when I wake up, our dog is lying on his filthy sheep skin in a spot of sunlight. He'll stretch his front and back legs before being ready to follow me to the back door for a cold trip to the yard. When I open the back door to let him out, a black cat pops out from under a fir tree two yards over (where he must have an appointment every morning at 4:30, because he leaves the warmth of our bed like clockwork) and hops a couple of chain link fences to rub himself on my legs and warm my lap while I eat my breakfast.
Christian moves often now. It used to be flutters, like something small was rolling over, but now it's more harsh movements. A sharp, painless, internal jab to the same spot repeatedly. Matt hasn't been able to feel him from the outside yet, but I'm excited for the day he can. As you can see, Christian takes up more real estate these days.
Matt has paused his work in our bathroom to tile the backsplash in the kitchen. It isn't grouted yet, and there's more to be tiled on the other side, but he's been working hard at it: tediously lining white rectangles across an empty wall, while we listen to Johnny Mathis sing slow songs on the record, and I slow dance with Maura in the glowing light of a Christmas tree.
I love this family God has given me.