Like they have on and off for the past month, local temperatures are going to dip below freezing tonight.  That’s why, naturally, I just killed a mosquito in my bedroom?  I guess it’s never too cold to get a mosquito bite on your forehead.

After being sick since Tuesday, Carmen is more energetic today.  David, too, although he still leaves a trail of used tissues everywhere he goes.  Right before bed they are angling for a pony.   

“My size,” Carmen explains.  “The head needs to be here,” she demonstrates as she holds her hand to her forehead.  “And it needs to be like this,” marking a line just below her waist, “so I can ride it.”  We can fence the pony in upstairs, she argues when I remind her we’ve no pasture, and just throw some hay down.  She runs around in circles to show that the pony has plenty of leg room.  I try to explain that’s not really a good idea, with the wood floors and all.  Carmen says she can Potette-train the pony.  “We can build a fence out front,” David offers, “With Daddy’s wood.”  I suggest it’s still not enough room.  (Nevermind that our so-called front yard is entirely a city easement, nevermind that, well, nevermind.)  David points with his muffin.  “We can ax this wall here!”   I imagine David hacking at the sheetrock and studs beneath, as if he were part of a radical home-improvement show.  Somehow from there we wander down to bed.  I’m about to get settle into bed; Carmen smiles and asks for an extra bedtime snack.  Stinker.

Meanwhile, Matt and I are smack dab in the middle of our nasty New Year’s virus.  We’re both feverish and congested, tired and not up for thinking very hard.  But thinking about ponies is pretty pleasant.  I remember a real estate listing that I spotted over the weekend.  The three-acre Fort Bend property along one of our old bike routes includes a dance studio, complete with pine floors and two heights of ballet bars installed along the walls.  And even, as Hyacinth Bucket likes to boast, room for a pony.