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* So get on updating that Flickr page, would you, partner?

Ed’s latest missive:

Simon spent the evening gathering armloads of green apples from the low branches of the apple tree and chasing bewildered rabbits through the neighbor’s yard in between snack trips to the blueberry bushes. I was casually aware of all of this as I tossed balls to the older kids. After rounding the corner from one of his berry expeditions the little hipster struts up to me sporting a powder blue goatee.

Not from the blueberries. It’s really powder. It turns out that Simon has acquired a taste for chalk. He doesn’t just flip a hunk of sidewalk chalk into his mouth, though. There is a specific preparation method.

First, one selects a suitable piece of chalk – blue, perhaps? – and sets it on a hard, flat surface. Next, one jumps on it repeatedly. Once the chalk is properly pulverized, push the powder into a pile. Finally, and this part is key, shove your mouth into the pile.

Then, off again to stalk the rabbits, my little blue-moustachioed hunter-gatherer.


Clare wears mostly sundresses in the summer, and lately, in the process of getting ready in the morning, I’ve found her underwear still sitting on the coffee table long after she’s been dressed.

I nag her constantly to put them on, and she resists.

“I don’t want to put them on, mommy!”

“Why not?”


“Because why?”

“Just because.”

Under my breath, “Because it’s fun to go commando.”

“Commando? What’s that?”

“Never mind.”

She flips her bare bottom into the air, doing a headstand on the couch.


Good thing there’s no current preschool teacher for her to repeat that one to.

Again! I have no time to entertain you. And again, he pulls through.

My co-workers think I’m insane from all the giggling I do at my computer screen.

Unedited e-mail:

As I’m sitting in the rocking chair getting Simon wound down for bed, he’s on the floor playing with a car and grunt grunt grunting away. After some time, he’s quiet and no longer out of breath. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow and continues playing with the car.

I say, as if I really need to ask, “Simon? You have poopies?”
Simon stands up, says, “FART!” and runs away.

Something is wrong with your life when your husband says to you, “you know, I can’t figure out why I’m so tired. We went to bed at midnight last night.”

Midnight. That’s late for most people our age. People with professional careers and young children who wake at the crack of dawn.

For us, it’s early. Because of my nutty schedule. But that’s all going to change soon.

I’ll still be yawning all day long for another 9 weeks, but after that, I’ll be working mostly 9 to 5 like the rest of you lucky stiffs.

What will I do with myself? Not really sure. But I have a feeling that after a few weeks of adequate sleep, I might just be bolting around the house like a cat who just took a shit. Look out!

So I’ll let The Geek entertain you. Here’s an e-mail from tonight, in its entirety.

Simon picks up a full cup of water, takes a drink, and “looks” at me. You know the look.
“Simon, don’t spill.”
Brief stand-off.
He empties the cup on the kitchen floor.
Before I can even react, he hollers, “TIME OUT!” and dashes out of the room in a grinning, toe stepping, flash of blonde.

In the other room he’s singing the time-out song and dancing like a crazy monkey on a hot plate . “Time out. Tiiiime out. Timeout. Time out. Time out.”