The hall runner, the front and back indoor mats, and the bathroom rug have been pressed into service between the rugs on any exposed wooden floor.  Baby came home from the hospital and can't walk well on slick surfaces.  Chairs block the doorways to the kitchen, having long ago outgrown the need for baby gates.  She is limited to only leashed potty breaks outside.  No walks, no jumping, and NO licking of the incision site. 

The never-ending yapping of the neighbors' dog reverberates in one ear.  The drone of a television show insults the other.  Vehicular traffic is constant.  Baby tries to sleep but whimpers and whines for lack of a comfortable position.

If she were healthy, she would be heading to the farm for the day.  It may be just as well that she must stay in the city.  Someone needs to stay to apply ice packs periodically, assist with potty breaks, stretch her legs muscles.  Mostly, she is my excuse to spend the afternoon napping rather than scraping up floor tile and aiding Mr. Gaelic by holding facia boards in place under the eaves while he nails the fresh wood to the outside of the cabin.  For a rare weekend, we will be at our suburban home rather than our country home.

Every weekend since Thanksgiving, we've been working on fixing up the cabin which had been neglected for the better part of 15 years.  Combined with the end-of-the-year flurry of activity at both Mr. G's and my jobs, exhaustion has set in.  Thanks in large part to Wednesday's unscheduled adventures.

Part of me wants the escape to the quiet and dark of our hidden valley.  Part of me wants the comfort of my familiar bed.  Once the cabin has been refurbished, I won't have to choose.  By then, Baby should be able to jump into the back of the truck.  And the only noise that will interrupt our silence will be the neighbor's cows who have wandered up to the devil's rope separating our land from his.