Or something equally profane in meteorological terms. We took a few minutes to watch the cars and clouds and dogs strut by. Max did some journaling about an incredible letterboxing cache he is planning. He looks so much like 7-year-old-Alina in this photo because that Alina always bit her tongue between her teeth when writing in her journal.
My Grand Bunicu used to tell me that I'd get "a nest of flies on the tongue" if I didn't put it back in my mouth. Little did he know the amazing images my young mind conjured when the words "a nest of flies on the tongue" were uttered in the magical Romanian language. Compared to English (or American), the language of Sunday school and multiple-choice tests and reasonable expectations, Romanian was the secret, magical tongue- the language in which there were words and places and feelings that could not pass over the border into my America, the language of romance and history and smoky rooms. I wonder if the children will pick up a smattering of Romanian when we visit next month. I wonder what they think- what Romanian evokes- when it slips over their auditory nerves.
Max works on his letterboxing acrostic.
Micah and Milla and their latest debate.
Today's favorite toy.