Goodness. (a teeny, tiny post)

I've clearly dropped the ball. 
maybe my flirtations with true sorrow are confusing in their verbiage.
the boys are playing foosball, my mother calls to say she has to pick up the lamb and will be late for egg dying.
the baby is asleep, arms flung up and out in wild acceptance of her exhaustion.
this is where we are, this Friday of our sorrows.