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Damn, I love these e-mails. I’ll miss them when I am working during the day, but I guess that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. 🙂 My treasure trove from this evening:

Subject: Clare quote 1

She was wearing around one of her purse/satchels.

“Hey, honey, what’s in the bag?”


Subject: Clare quote 2

“I have to go now. I’m going to Texas.”

“What are you doing in Texas?”

“I have concert!”

“Are you playing rock and roll?”

“No. It’s more like a play. And you’re in it, Daddy!

You get to be the Foolish Monster!”

Subject: And then there’s Simon …

who hauled the guitar outside. And carried it everywhere. Strumming it. Like a wandering minstrel.

Walking through the front yard, strumming the guitar.

Walking through the back yard, strumming the guitar.

Walking up and down the driveway, strumming the guitar.

Sitting on the patio, strumming the guitar.

Sitting on the front steps, strumming the guitar.

Sitting on the rocking chair, strumming the guitar.

Laying in his crib, strumming the guitar.


Apparently, throwing the guitar out of his crib so he has room to sleep.



Lunch today, The Geek’s tomato soup. Bordering on heaven. Seriously. I’m showing Simon how to dip his grilled cheese into it when Ed asks me how it is.

“Delicious,” I say.

Simon, obediently dipping, says, “Dewisssus.”

“Did you hear that?”

He’s engrossed in the Sports section. “Harmpfh.”

Simon continues for about 5 minutes, dragging his sandwich through the soup, repeating, “Dewisssus. Dewissus.”

Finally, his father comes up for air and engages his son. “Simon, is that delicious?”


“Simon, is that delicious?”

Hummm. Refrigerator buzzing.

“Simon! Delicious?”


He points to his crackers. “Dewisssus!”

I got my free weekend. The one I was waiting for, with nothing to do but sit on the patio and watch the kids ride trikes and throw balls.

The only problem is, Ed and Myles are missing. They’re at scout camp for the weekend. The three of us that are left are having a pretty good time — we made a kick-ass pasta sauce tonight out of cherry tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, and they ate it right up. (Family dinners are going to be a very good thing.)

But today when I got out of the shower and slipped on my wedding ring, I felt the cool metal against my finger and realized something. I’m never happier than when we’re all together. Which is only on weekends. Which means I’m feeling like someone cut off that finger.

But it also makes me realize that I’m lucky as hell. It’s been nine years and counting, and the person I most want to be with at the end of the day, at the beginning of the weekend, is still Ed. And after all this time, after all this stress, if that’s still true, then there’s nothing that will ever change it.


I might have finally scored one.

The other two are so firmly entrenched as daddy’s kids that I know there’s no hope. I was one; I know there’s no winning over a daddy’s girl. (Sorry mom; I love you dearly.)

But the third kid has come at the end of daddy’s rope. And he happens to be the most typical two-year-old of the bunch, if you catch my drift. I’ve witnessed Mr. Patience snapping more than a few times recently. And I’ve discovered I am enjoying tickling toes and wrestling with the last baby.

Because it’s my last summer at home with the kids during the day, I started taking them on special outings every Wednesday. We all really look forward to it as special time that’s devoted to nothing but fun.

Last week it was scorching hot outside, so we took the indoor route and went to one of those warehouses jam-packed with inflatable slides and jumpy things. Honestly, I’ve never seen such unadulterated joy. Simon raced from jumper to jumper on his tippy toes, squealing most of the way. I ran after him, and we bounced, slid, threw balls and played night-night for two hours.

Since then, he’s been jumping into my lap every morning, saying, “Jumping with mama! Jumping with mama!” He also hasn’t protested me putting him down for his nap and has even picked my lap over The Geek’s here and there.

Who knows if it will stick, but for now, I’ll take my mama’s boy. (And maybe take him jumping a few more times.)