another cold, wet evening …

… and we’re all hanging out in the living room, me sprawled on a chair, carole and eamon on the couch, and mairin (as she is wont to these days) running around the wall separating our kitchen, dining room and living room, squealing “look at me — i running!” over and over again until she’s so out of breath that it sounds more like “loo — gasp! me-i — heave! ning!” and we watch her like she’s reality tv or the teletubbies or something equally mind-effacing. the heat kicks on, and for the first time in hours mairin changes course, leaving her loop of “look at me!” and angling toward us. we brace for the affectionate hurtle into one of our laps (”da-ee pick-a me up-a!”), and carole instinctively shields eamon’s eyes, ears, and fontanelle. but mairin ignores us, landing instead on the floor register, which she stands over, hair wisping in the upward gust of warmth, coyly grinning at us, saying:

“look — i marilyn.”