Even days at home can start to feel like ratrace days to me. Ballet was cancelled, Junior Great Books was cancelled (I wasn't in the mood for Carl Sandburg anyway). So we spent the afternoon at Sunday Park, and it the day was lovely. Frances, however, was not. Very high maintenance. I continue to wonder when or whether I should worry about her meltdowns. We noticed she wasn't next to us any more, and I looked where the other kids were and didn't readily see her, and sure enough, far, far away on the opposite side of the park she was under a tree looking weepy. No one would play with her, she said. She needed help finding a friend. A girl. I could not help. Elaine was clingy and not herself, either. Rutledge was eating dirt by the handful and trying to steal people's juice boxes. The boys were playing YuGiOh as usual. There was playing interspersed with the obsession, but the ubiquitous binders were still pulled out a number of times.

Then we came home, where I tackled that thankless task I refer to as trying to park the car in the garage. The hot water heater is the problem, really. Way too hard to get around. If I park sort of diagonally, I can almost imagine taking people and parcels in and out, but it's still a skinny little sideways dance. I organized some shelves, moved the little workbench to a new spot, threw away some things, sorted through some old preschool projects, some grad school notebooks, some undergraduate essays. I wish that there was more to be seen for the work I did, but alas, there isn't.

I'm still trying to figure out whether we actually go through with the yard sale next weekend. It's a hard question. On one hand, what do I have to lose, other than my sanity? And what do I have to gain except the possibility of maybe a few dollars. What could I sell? Well, that's a different issue. Two end tables, maybe a rocking chair that needs a new seat (a project for a different lifetime of mine), a 6 disk CD changer, some swingset piecey parts, a grout float or two (we have three, go figure), a few toys, maybe that nasty pull behind bike trailer that wishes it was a Burley, a crib mattress. But my desire to not deal with the pushy yard salers may outweigh my desire for a few dollars. And maybe everyone wonders whether anyone really wants their old junk.