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Thirteen

Max will be thirteen years old today at around noon.

He's currently in the midst of a science project in his room - not the sort that invariably occur by accident in the rooms of teenage boys - an actual for school project involving plants and various kinds of light. This has necessitated the sectioning off of some 'zones' in his room where plants can get incandescent, fluorescent, blacklight, or sunlight.

We're attending a comic convention today, Wizard World in Nashville, and he's excited about his first con of any kind, and the Star Trek folk who will be in attendance. Yesterday was party day, and we had lunch with his grandpa at Culver's (still far and away one of his favorite places to go, partly for the idealized Wisconsin-ness he associates with it) and then mini-golf and music and presents and mayhem with his crew, pictured. He fell asleep last night in one of our recliners while Meredith & Sandy were over while attempting to watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I don't think he was entirely into it.

He's a sensitive guy, and his anti-bullying club at school (which he founded; brag, brag) is ramping up for this year. He's a proud nerd who collects books and weapons and who still enjoys chess and Legos. For the first time this year, he's being made to read for school (and write about it) and like a lot of avid readers, this has dimmed his passion for reading. He asked for (and got) a multi-year subscription to Mad Magazine this year. His feet are ridiculously large, and he's going to be the tallest person in our house in six months to a year. His favorite kind of pizza is still cheese, and for his birthday party snacks yesterday he chose green apples, Doritos, pretzels, cheese curds, Raisinets and fancy sodas. He's got a "you will enjoy this on as many levels as I do" streak, and if you engage him on a subject which he holds close to his heart, you may never escape.

He's an easy kid to love - cerebral and quiet times are balanced with reactionary and loud times. He likes to hug and hang out; he wore a headband throughout the NiH showing of Frozen the other night and chided me for running off on my own to read, and never allows our houseguests to leave without hugs. I'm looking forward to what the next several years will bring - changes and sames, alike. Max is a good person, and someone I enjoy hanging out with as much as I love him.

Happy birthday, Max.

Abby is Eight

On the 24th, my daughter Abby turned eight.

To celebrate, she requested a "luau." Her internal definition of this was quite loose and involved fish, leis, pineapple, grass skirts, torches and music. The genesis of this was the end of the school year LAST year, when the class had a luau of sorts to send off the year. Apparently, she needed to make it her own badly enough that she hung onto it for a year.

I hung netting and bought pineapple, made mix disks and invited a bunch of girls over to bash the hell out of a Tiki head pinata in my front yard, infuriating the ill-behaved nextdoor neighbor girl who was pointedly not invited. There was playing in water, dancing, numerous ad hoc congaesque line dance-marching, making torches out of construction and tissue paper, and many Abby-chosen party foods like black olives, wasabi peas, beef jerky and multi-colored Goldfish. The girls crashed in the living room after midnight after watching (and singing along with) Frozen, which, I grant you, is perhaps an odd choice for a luau-themed event.

The following day, her actual birthday, she never made it out of PJs. They had a Wake 'n' cake 'n' bacon breakfast, followed by present opening and playing around until folks went home. She requested Chinese take out late in the day and spent relaxing time playing with her new My Little Pony and Lego toys, among others.

At eight, she is mercurial. She wakes up in a good mood and goes to bed grumpy. She loves and is fiercely loyal to her family and friends and quick to stick up for an underdog or smaller person. She likes to race my car to the stop sign in the mornings after I drop her with her walking partners, and thinks it's stupid that she has to ride in the back while still kind of wanting to keep her car seat. She hates when you won't listen. She is easily flustered by choice situations, especially when they are arbitrary. The other day she openly wept at the ZZ Ward song "Last Love Song," which is admittedly sad. She's excited about learning to REALLY ride her bike and her backstroke back this Summer. According to data collected by her mom this morning, she's on track to be about 6'1" when she's finished growing into her feet and legs. She generally has fewer bruises than she used to, but that's because she's getting better at stuff. She still needs to be tucked in every night, and listens to the same mix CD she's had for about a year.

Happy Eighth, Abby.

Duck Disappointment

Over the course of this recently passed holiday season, I espoused the point of view - more than once - that if you were hanging out with your friends and family and discussing Phil Robertson's relatively recent remarks, then you had already lost, succumbed to the trap the Robertson family (and maybe A&E) wanted you in from the very beginning - talking about the stars of Duck Dynasty during the off-season, just after the Christmas special had run, and in the break before the show comes back on the air with new episodes mid-January. Think that's paranoid? Do you imagine it far-fetched that this is a plan? These people are hunters and trappers by primary vocation, and they run a media empire that breaks records AND you had never even heard of them two years ago. Not even two: the show started in March of 2012. So you got spanked by a bunch of rednecks if you spent the holidays posting and arguing and spouting off about Phil. You're prey, a mark. Congratulations: you got suckered.

Probably not as badly as I did, though. I watch this show. Pretty regularly. I wrote a paper comparing it favorably with "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo." I read the books that came out last year (took me about four hours in total to read all three), and I had 40 of the episodes built up on my DVR for decompression time after I graduated. Granted, they were there with the specific intent of killing brain cells: the re-runs have a relaxing kind of rhythm to them. I like the show and think Uncle Si and Jase are funny. I think Willie's probably a business genius. I don't have the "killing animals and eating them" objection that a lot of my friends have, and there's been nothing on the show I haven't been more or less comfortable letting my kids watch. There are far fewer adult words and ideas than on the sit-coms and dramas we sometimes watch together. The show also doesn't follow the format of other reality shows with the endlessly repeated scenes, long cuts, sensationalism and degradation, and it evokes, emotionally, people I grew up around as a Southerner. That includes jackass people like Phil Robertson.

Every left-of-center person I know who watches Duck Dynasty has put forth, in some form or another, the idea that the more we watch, the less we like Phil. You cannot watch the show for any length of time and not get a pretty good bead on the fact that he's an old-fashioned, intolerant titan of arrogance. From his casual sexism to his assertion that an effeminate photographer has "mommy issues," Phil's an unabashed dick, but he's only one person on the show. Herein lies my second point (the first being that this kerfuffle is just twerking naked for rednecks) - PHIL'S NOT THE ONLY PERSON ON THE SHOW. Fine, he's the patriarch, he's the "Duck Commander," whatever - but what do YOU do when someone in your family's a fuckwit? How many chances do you give your Uncle Douchebag, racist grandpop, or old dog cousin? And before you answer, I'd invite you to measure your excised number of family members against mine. Most people in families don't just kick people out - I'd also invite you to remember that. There's a bunch of other Robertsons, and $$$ aside, it's none of our fucking business how they proceed from here unless they make it so. Some would argue that they have - I'm not as sure.

Next: There is the "what did you expect from a pig from a grunt" argument. Phil's old, white Church of Christ and not terribly bright - he has made his success from working hard, often a Southern or broke people's substitute for being smart. His unenlightened views on homosexuality are widely shared here in the American southeast, disgusting and wrongheaded as they are. Sounds like an opportunity to talk about that, yes? His remarks on black people are so profoundly stupid and blinkered, they sound like where White Guilt intersects with White Privilege, so it's kind of easy to see where that comes from, too. None of this excuses the dumb shit that he said, and continues to say, and likely believes, but one has to wonder where the outrage and surprise comes from. It rings hollow. (If he weren't rich, he'd be another dumb motherfucker I ignore at a truck stop, failing a teachable moment.) Really, Media America? You didn't see this coming? As a group, the Robertsons know who their audience is - they just put their name on a line of guns, and made nice with 'Murica everywhere from Baba Wawa to Fox News. The fucking Christmas show pointedly opens actually inside a Wal-Mart. 

So, "Free" Speech: Phil has oodles of free speech. Anyone who says different is desperately trying to latch onto the controversy for their own gain, SARAH FUCKING PALIN. Or they're mixed up about the concept. Phil's employer disciplined him (barely) for some shit that he may even have been contractually obligated to shut the fuck up about - and we don't know anything about that. Find me a contract if you'd like to fight about that. What we do know is that his comments were printed in a magazine, and are still available on the Internet with "the 25 greatest breasts in movie history" right next to them. Free speech, people. Free speech is not saying whatever you want without repercussion - there are limits and laws restricting it, as well there should be. The private entities involved in this further complicate what is, in this case, a nonexistent issue.

Maybe reacting to this at all was pretty stupid of us as a group, yeah? Maybe a nice, measured action after the fact would be something to do? Unfortunately, this is where I find myself now. I made the mistake of saving the Xmas special until yesterday - I didn't want to watch it during the flap - and now I find that the thrill is gone. I knew the car guzzled gas, but now I know it takes jobs overseas, too? That might just be too much. I'm pissed and disappointed with Phil Robertson's hypocritical ass and wish that he could have kept his fool mouth shut and not ruined his family's show for me, even though I kind of already knew he was an intolerant gasbag, but I think now that if I watched it, I would not want my kids in the room, would not be able to face my gay friends or anyone else, and might find it inconsistent with what I think is good in the world.

Which is a shame. But we'll always have this.

Love in the Mountains

A little over a week ago now, two good friends of mine, Wess and Chelle, got married. That's them to the left, walking forward with their wedding party, about to crush the photographer underfoot. (The photographer is invisible in this photo, pants and all.)

It was kind of a whirlwind weekend, at least from my perspective. On Friday I picked the kids up from school and brought them home, then left Max with Ron whilst I bundled several last minute items into the already well-traveled Lincoln (including some white wine and my daughter) and headed for Bear Creek Crossing Resort, getting lost only once in Knoxville and finding WiFi in front of a storefront with coffins in it across from a Church's Fried Chicken. So you know - one of the nice areas.

I arrived in the middle of a game and hanging out that never really stopped. I got to see not only Chelle and Wess and their great friends (Jake of the Stars and Leigh, the Cy(i)ndis, Courtney & Shane, Hairdresser Brian, Rusty and Julie) but also reconnect with Tommy & Dewayne, people I haven't seen for about twenty years. This kind of 'restricted to one or two people with whom you actually got along' sort of reconnection is my model, by the way: reunions are never going to be my scene, especially not with what I hear.

Saturday was the wedding, officiated by Dewayne, and preceded by fun and ridiculousness and Abby playing darts (bullseye, natch) and getting her hair really "done" for the first time. (She loved Brian.) Those of us without official jobs (me) got to just kind of hang out and watch people be brides and grooms and flower girls and bridesmaids and whatnot. I shot a game of pool after finding the fuse box, for instance. Eventually, there was traipsing down the mountain to another cabin, watching two of my favorite people (a beautiful bride in Chelle, and also, you know, Wess) promise foreverness and pour sand under a covered bridge thing, and food and dancing. Could not have gone better, I thought. I even thought the invisible mountain hecklers were kind of okay.

Abby had the perfect seven-year-old girl wedding day; she got up and played with the boys, got her hair done for real with makeup and the pretty dress, she did her job, which lasted about ten minutes, tops, and then she danced and hung out with all grown ups and drank punch and caught the bouquet and lit sparklers and saved peacock feathers and crashed out exhausted on the couch watching TV with a roomful of grown-ups again.

Then we did the car. Saw a clown at Wal-Mart. That might be a whole other post.

In the end, it was over too soon, but it was a great beginning to a beautiful journey, and I was honored and pleased to have been invited.

Love In New England

A little over a week ago now, two good friends of mine, Meredith and Sandy, got married. That's them to the left, doing their reflective Abbey Road walk with their bridesmaids.

Last Thursday, me and mine packed up the Lincoln and left Murfreesboro at about 4pm. We made Connecticut by 11am the following morning. This is because we are hardcore. The kids were great and rocked it, sleeping in the car and not complaining any more than I was. Conservative talk radio keeps the blood up and keeps one awake, as does shitty gas station coffee. Adrenaline probably helps - we had a weird incident with our debit card all the way through Virginia, which turned out to be the fault of our credit union, but the shot of adrenaline from the not knowing and re-planning I'm sure helped immensely. Christie & I took shifts of napping, and after a McNew Jersey breakfast we got to Jesse & Sandra's house (after an interminable number of disgustingly cute bridges) about several hours before we were expected. Which was kind of terrible of us, but which felt so good to achieve that we couldn't get over ourselves. Luckily, the Greist-Salazars are too nice to really tell us how they felt about that. I suppose they could have been cursing us out in Spanish, but I think I would have twigged on to some of the words, there. Friday night we crashed like...well, like tired fucking people. We were tired. It was like having a day with another day tacked onto the end of it.

Saturday, Christie and I got up and dressed and left for Vermont and the wedding shown above. We drove for about four hours more (a theme!) and ended up at Moose Meadow Lodge, this place with awesome unfinished wood columns, tasty hot sauce, really nice owner/facilitator guys and too many dead things' heads on the walls. Meredith and Sandy were married under a natural arbor formed in the front of the forested area on the grounds while we stood on crunchy fresh fallen leaves and apples and watched. It was a great and sweet ceremony, and we had a great time in the short after with the delicious cake and champagne. I am proud to have been there, and to be their friend.

After, we adjourned to Michael's On the Hill, which is up on a hill (curiously enough) and filled with burnished and painted and attractively displayed bits of farming equipment. I do not understand Vermont. The food was delicious, though, and my only lament was that there could have been more soup and cheesy fried things. Cheesy fried things with a smear of aioli next to them on a plate are good, cheesy fried things in a basket lined with greasy wax paper in quantities of say, half a dozen...well, it's an experiment I'd like to try. During dinner, I had my first substantial conversation with Joe and Davida, Mer's brother and sister-in-law, and while I don't like most of the people I meet, I liked them. So love was in the air. 

After some hanging out, Christie and I checked into our hotel, which had a fireplace in the room, a roomy shower, covered bridges on the grounds, and cuteness just goddamn splattered on stuff. We had a great mini-vacation within the vacation, most of which is none of your business. When we checked out on Sunday, we toured the Ben & Jerry's original factory while our kids were at the UU church with Jesse's family. I ate ice cream while my kids were at church. Heh. We bought some Cabot cheeses and looked at more pastoral adorableness and then headed back to the CT, arriving Hamden around fiveish in the rain. Jesse's family treated us to pies at Antonio's pizza place, which was awesome.

The following day was Monday, and had some hanging out and sending postcards in it, and I got to see some cool parts of Hamden/New Haven, and we relaxed. You know, that thing that "people" do when they're on "vacations." Monday night was this great dinner at Ellen's house, and then I crested the hill. Tuesday morning we got up early and couldn't eat eggs. We did some grave rubbings, then my family had to take me to Hartford to fly back home, as I had missed the maximum number of some of my classes.

Flying is exactly the same. I haven't been on a plane since 2004 or so, and it's the same. Same plane interiors, same stupid airport stuff, same conversations about my knee, same old shite. Same old delay into Baltimore, resulting in the same old running through the airport. Got picked up by Ron at the airport, so thanks for that, and then I was home, to my house and pets most excellently looked after by Laura and Whitney, who both became overly attached to my dog.

It was good, and there's a commemorative photo album there on the side. 

Twelve

Today Max is twelve years old.

It's a little after 5 in the morning, because Max and his friend Steven, I suspect, napped for like three hours or so before getting back up and hanging out some more, because they only see each other about three times a year or so. Steven has been Max's friend for half of Max's life, which is pretty cool. He'll also hang out with Allison and Taylor today, who he's known for three and two years, respectively, and a few brand new people he's more recently become friends with. And one "frenemy," kind of.

Max's middle school has no anti-bullying club or organized initiative, so Max has been talking with his principal and meeting with the guidance counselor to start one. He plans to have meetings and do visibility stuff and maybe have a pledge people sign when they join. Their mascot is a Raven, so the club is called "Nevermore." We're all extremely proud of this effort from him, which came completely from his own dissatisfaction with society as he saw it. He's a senstive and sometimes angry kid - I don't know where he gets it from.

Earlier in the Summer, Max's goldfish, Spot and Demon who were about four years old and change, died. Rick had died almost a year before that, in a heatwave when our A/C was out. They have marked graves in the backyard beneath our porch. It took him all Summer to decide to commit to more fish, and now he has two new ones; Zeus, a white Tetra, and Hades, a black skirt Tetra. He has also purchased a moss ball to accumulate tank growth, and has his eye on a catfish, which we may get next week.

Max reads about a book a week at this point, and if there are no new books, he will simply re-read stuff from his room. He has forayed a little (but a very little) into non-kid literature, reading some Neil Gaiman and Tolkien and a few other things I've given him. He absolutely hated Grisham's Theodore Boone book, and has refused to read any more of them. A lot of his birthday gifts are books. This is a necessity. Green Lantern is still his favorite superhero, and he scoffs at people, openly, who have only seen the movie.

He's a percussionist in the band at school, but he's getting tired of the bells and other stuff and wants some straight up drums (something which will be partially taken care of today, but he doesn't know that yet.) and we're planning on eliminating the workstation in the den and putting drums down for him. He also wants his own laptop or pad and fewer restrictions, but we're in negotiations about that. He still really enjoys building stuff and Nerf weapons and making up quest games for his sister and friends. He's started a blog called Angry Dolphins and has a creative writing project he comes back to now and again.

Recently, we had a moment in the car where he was REALLY my kid. Those moments when you hear yourself come out of someone else's mouth? Yeah:

CHRISTIE: I have this really bad ear worm this morning.

MAX: Ugh.

ABBY: What's an "ear worm?"

CHRISTIE: It's when you get a song in your head that won't go away.

MAX: And it's a terrible phrase.

ME: I agree. I've always hated that one.

CHRISTIE: Well, how would you say, "song stuck in my head that won't go away?"

MAX: "Song stuck in my head that won't go away."

CHRISTIE: That's not very short.

MAX: It's short enough. 

Happy birthday, Max. I love you.

Seven

Yesterday was my daughter's seventh birthday. So she's like, all seven and stuff now.

Yesterday was also her last (half) day of the first grade (they had a class luau), and she got picked up by her BFFs mom and taken to see the movie Epic. They then went to see her friend dance, at which point she and the friend were dropped off for sleepover. Then, every other little girl in the world showed up. Okay, just four more and two older ones, but the noise was tremendous. A good time was had. Cake and homemade pizzas were consumed. A pinata happening spewed candy and wrappers can be found everywhere today. Gifts were opened and played with, and then sleeping over occurred, with the last ones not crashing until sometime in the 1 to 2am slot. So - a good solid birthday, I think, mostly put together by Abby's mom, though parts were played by all. Some questions and observations:

• Nerds candy should be a contraband item. (Peggy Guy, your curse on me has come to fruition!)
• So should blue cake frosting.
• I think girls in close quarters are louder than boys in close quarters. Both of my kids are pretty loud, and I haven't done the research with controls and all, but still.
• I'm not sure what it means when a party where there's crying, icepacks, throwing up, insomnia, slamming doors and blood (though not a lot of any of this) is still a unanimously agreed-upon success. An adaptability of children' thing? Practice for college parties?
• This new Play-Doh "Plus" is weird.
• Small people playing "zombie attack" in my backyard makes me smile.
• Girls share stuff better than boys do. Mostly.
• My daughter takes up about twice as much space when she sleeps as does the rest of the time. 

Abby at 7 loves art and math. She gets really attached to some people, loves hugs and hates good-byes. She still has what I identify as my temperment, which makes her sometimes appear short-tempered and moody, but that's only because you haven't been following the story. She has really strong and stubborn opinions about things and definite ideas about how things should work. She still likes it when I dry her hair. She wants to help with chores. She loves cute and fuzzy things - her favorite new TV show is Too Cute, which sometimes makes her cry. She cried a little when C got her Master's because she was "so proud." Her favorite books are the Judy Moody and Stink books, and we're getting through the Goddess Girl series right now, taking turns reading. She has better relationships with our neighbors than anyone else in our house.

I think she's awesome. And tall, with big monster feet, because it makes her laugh when I say that. For a little while longer.

Eleven (That's Ridiculous)

Max is eleven years old today. Right now. Step back and experience the elevenness.

At eleven, he's old enough to get the above reference. His big eleven-year-old plans for this morning? He's requested grits for breakfast and he got up and snuck downstairs to watch Looney Tunes before anyone else got up. After the rest of our household rises, we're packing up and driving to North Carolina today to see two of Max's favorite people, Carissa and Eric, get married tomorrow. We'll be hanging in the Autumnal mountain air with friends, having cake and presents and then he gets a week off from school courtesy the Fall Break we didn't have when I was eleven. Or twelve. Or ever.

Because his birthday's getting kind of eaten by this other thing, we're also doing cake and stuff next weekend, and little stuff maybe next week - it'll be a Birthday Celepaloozastravaganza.

Max's room is such a reflection of his personality at this point that I actually wrote an essay about it for a class this semester. It's like his mind exploded in there. He's sticking with his percussion well, making new friends at his new school and will be teaching origami to Abby's Girl Scout Troop next month. His book tastes have started to develop past the point where he needs suggestions, and his various projects have completely conquered his living space.

His favorite TV show right now is Gravity Falls, and when the assignments from his band teacher ran to the boring, he taught himself the theme song from the show on the bells. His favorite superhero is still Green Lantern, but he's more about the whole gamut of the various Corps and the mythology of their universe than any one particular Lantern. He's having a Lego renaissance right now, having not touched them for a while, and tends to "improve" the suggested projects as he does them. He often listens to college radio in his room, but also enjoys (lately) the Orb, ska, They Might be Giants and Nirvana. He loves his dog and wishes she obeyed him more, and has been trying with his bow and Nerf guns to become a better shot.

He's kind and considerate and curious and sensitive, this last often to the point where he loses patience with me when I'm not tolerant enough of others. You can see how this might happen. He's fully his own person, which is what every parent hopes for, and I love him completely and wish him the happiest of birthdays.

Percussionist

I'm going to brag a little bit now.

My son's a percussionist. He went for his "band fitting" yesterday, and after a year of steel drumming last year and two weeks this year of sweating it, losing sleep and thinking he'd made disastrous mistakes in testing and was already thinking about his back-ups (trumpet and clarinet) he walks in yesterday only to find that his teacher had placed him at the top of her list - literally #1, she showed me - and wasn't going to make him drill or test anymore at all. He's in. He was caught so flat-footed by this because of his expectation that she was going to make him test anyway - that he tested anyway. Turns out, the thing he can't do and was worried about is an end of the year type skill, some kind of snare roll.

When he tested, I turned my back so he wouldn't have to see me looking, worked my out of his line of sight and listened. I heard this:

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT; TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TATT! RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT; TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TATT!

Then I turned so I could watch him copy it only to find that he just had. His copy of her drill was indistinguishable from the example given. It was awesome. So yeah, I filled out forms and we laid out a bunch of money for sticks and mallets and rentals and he's in the band as one of eight percussionists from his grade.

I am bursting with pride, and told him so. 

I've been giving him Sun Ra and the Marsalis boys, Dizzy and Louis and Miles, Coltrane and Cannonball, Son House and Lightning Hopkins and Screaming Jay Hawkins and Elvin Jones since he was little, and his uncle Brian's music has always been around. More recently, Vini & the Demons and lots of ska (thanks, Josh) and 90s grunge and metal and his uncle Eric's music. Motorhead, Flaming Lips and Nirvana are on his radar now. He likes Mos Def and MC Chris, DJ Revolution, Rahzel and Chuck D and 80s hip-hop, though he dissed early Fresh Prince as "silly." He's recently developed an affinity for R.E.M., They Might Be Giants, Atomic Blonde and Sublime and lots of female singers - Kate Bush, Liz Phair, Natalie Merchant and Tori Amos have all been requested recently.

I knew he liked music - he was in steel drums and chorus last year and listens to all this stuff - but I didn't know he could do this quite this well, and the revelation and pride and love and excitement are almost more than I can stand.

What Life is Like

Woke up this morning at 7:01 from a dream where my friends lived on a giant interconnected farm and one of them had been taking Kung-Fu. I was also missing my wife, who was in Nashville overnight for a training thing. She would never have let me sleep with my glasses on and my cheek stuck on the corner of a book about witches that I'm not really enjoying, but I'm 400 pages in, and dammit, I'm not going to have wasted all this time and effort for nothing. I'm also not going to read the rest of the trilogy, I'm thinking. I'm bull-headed, not stupid.  

Rolled over to find the dog, who's not supposed to be in my room at all, sitting on the floor and looking at me, and the kids downstairs watching Ruby Gloom and not letting the dog out. So I got up and let her out, made coffee, and spent almost $200 online on textbooks for my semester that starts on the 27th. Let the realization that this is my last week of Summer freedom sink in and then went and got a shower after dicking around on Facebook for a few minutes over the coffee.

Showered and went out for breakfast, which ended up being at a Waffle House, because my kids like it there. The couple across from us was weird, with the lady complaining about the food quality and sending stuff back (at Waffle House?) and soaking her cutlery in ice water. That's a picture of their table up there. The lady behind us was having problems with her kids, which made me additionally grateful for my kids, who were being awesome, full of bacon and ideas. After that, we had errands - dog treats and fish tank supplies and potting soil and a poster frame for my new Dr. Who poster.

My house is relatively quiet now as my daughter swats flies in the kitchen and hums songs, and my son designs a game involving target shooting and swords. I've been reading up on the web about various skin treatments for my daughter, and am about to head back out to get things with muds and acids in them, things I never thought I would know anything about, and some of the basic grocery items we're out of. We have big plans to watch the Three Stooges movie this evening and re-plant Abby's squash plants while Max mows the lawn.

This is Saturday.