Blustery.

(So I had a picture all ready for today, but you'll just have to imagine it: Lucy in her salmon-colored, hooded sweatshit, eating a late lunch at her little table.)
You love the blustery weather, but only enough to image getting soggy going down the slide. Before your nap, you spied the mailman's car outside. You said, "I'll get the mail after I'm all done sleeping." Although you had protested, you were happy to lay down under the covers and close your eyes. The very first thing you asked to do was to check the mail. I slipped on my shoes and we stepped into the surprisingly warm and windy weather, rain blowing into our hair. I love the balance there on the porch -- you collecting the mail as I fish it out, turning your rested and ruddy cheeked face to smile at me; I feel you growing heavier on my hip as the changed leaves blow onto the porch. The best part is coming back inside with you, even though it is not always easy.