flower child, rambling.

baby's dreaming on blue velvet in the next room and i am writing from the nursery, curled into the rocking chair nibbling buttered brioche and listening for the moka pot. it's funny to think of a baby who prefers to snooze right there in the middle of things, and not in his bed, but then, that is francis brown. he has always been so genuinely, entirely, interested in life itself. he has always been so happy to be here.

i have always wanted a moka pot. i think of buying one every time we return from europe and, this time, i actually did it. in my jet lagged, first morning home haze, francis and i strolled to zabar's with the express purpose of collecting a moka pot, still-warm scones, and clotted cream. on the walk home i told him this is how we can make it all last a bit longer. this is how we bring the world to our door.

this photo is the one i love most -- today, at least. it was the first picnic of a new summer and elinor tucked white clover behind his ear and he went on all night like that. i imagine our bones to be made of flowers, his and mine, for it seems that whatever we are doing, wherever we are, we hear earth whispering come closer and something tucked deep in our collective marrow flickers in response. it's all we want to do: be nearer to the flowers. we fill pitchers with peonies and press petals between pages and visit neighbors' roses. i study the central park bloom guide and plan our afternoon wanderings accordingly. when he wakes, we'll walk to the shakespeare garden and spend time with primroses.

it's another day at home with my baby, and not an hour goes by that i don't give thanks for that.