All the love

Mom I gave Eddie all my love.

I heard, I am sure she could feel it.

But, now what do I do?

Do?

Do I not have any love left?

Cool thing about love Sam, the more you give out, the more you have to give.

How?

Magic.

Actually Mom, it is not magic. It is your heart.

***

Meanwhile Marcel, aka the Great Disperser (if it is contained, he will free it, dump it, throw it, send it to a new destination) is gathering words by the mouthfuls to add to his impressive store. At the moment he is waddling around the room talking about hockey (Sam's calendar) bus (which means let's get in the car, and go look for buses his current obsession) poo-poo to celebrate his morning constitution, and Eh-dee because I mentioned to Sam that she is coming for dinner this week, and Marcel has been looking all over the house for her ever since. My favorite is Watch this! And then he jumps in the air a centimeter and screams WOW.

The writer Mama has been on hiatus, and it is time to ramp it up again. A new class begins in a few weeks, a major poetry performance looms on the horizon (yearly school staff talent show, where I have performed for the last two years, and have a little parent and student following now. Most importantly, Sam is looking forward to it, and even suggested topics for the poem last night; "me when I was a baby again, or me doing karate, or a poem about how you yell."
When I told him that I had written a line of the poem in the shower he asked if it got wet. Of course that begins another poem entirely.

Next entry--photos from the newly refurbished, and kick'in playroom, which Sammy described last night to Eddie on the phone as "totally awesome". This was unprompted, so you know he really digs it.