Maybe it’s the carburator

I’ve been reading a lot (what’s new?), writing a lot (some of it actually hasn’t been binned), running a lot (if oh so short and daintily), and seeing almost enough of the Concordians. What I can’t seem to bring myself to do is blog. There is no shortage of topics—things I would normally pass on to both you loyal readers—but I just can’t get the blogomotor to turn over. So no proclamations, no attempts at funny stories or theoretically interesting memories, no rants occasioned by ongoing outrages, no trip reports. Not even an urge to commit book review.

Instead, here are the inevitable but nonetheless irresistible pix of sweet B in her last couple of months of twoness. First, from, I think, her father’s birthday.

 

Then a couple from Easter.

 

And one from last weekend, with her dad, Jasper the Wonderdog, and my feet, just before bedtime.

Okay, one short story: Over the weekend, B told an adult who was asking her to do something that “it isn’t convenient right now.” She got points for vocabularistic precositude, but no relief.