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I don't finish things. College, models, scarfs, drawings, paintings, research projects, window coverings. You name it I've left it 85% completed. When I draw I only draw the subject, never background. I leave the bones of the pizza of life. Which is odd since I eat the bones and leave the pizza when I eat pizza. In fact, I now order half of our pizzas with light cheese and sauce so I have an entire slice of 'bone'. Go figure. Anyway, not finishing things is supposed to be a bad thing about a person which is perhaps why I've only recently admitted to myself that I'm a 'quitter'. I mentioned it to my stepfather, and he was quick to try to convince me otherwise. But no! It's true and I find I'm quite at peace with it. I mean, the lack of window coverings didn't land me in jail, I was able to hold down a good job, the craft projects aren't in therapy; it seems to do no particular harm. The exception to the quitting thing seems to be books, and that lonely island is beginning to crumble. I was going to say books and relationships, but I'm only half the relationship, and Alan is just the opposite in this respect. On our house, for example, I know if I deal with the red tape and organizing and the financing, he'll provide the sweat and follow-through, and likely this is somewhat the same for our relationship.

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In other news, I've earned another Eco Freak badge. I now have a worm bin.

What is it with babies and covers? Three swift kicks with his sturdy little legs, and they lie crumpled at his feet, unless he happens to be thwarting himself by grabbing them with both fists and shaking them violently at the same time. Connor was exactly the same way. The idea of blankets as a good thing didn't catch on 'til he was over a year old. The blanket wars are beginning to cut into my sleep, I keep waking to cover him up again, which wakes him up just enough to kick them down again. My mom says this is why they make baby pajamas called sleepers out of blanket fabric. No doubt she is right.