I was going to have this post be text-free, but I want to experiment, and I didn't want the experiment to be the fabled 100th post. This happens to be post #99.

I'm dragging my feet over all the things I need to have done by noon on Friday. Why the deadline? Because. So I need to get on the stick. On the dreadmill this morning, I had the bright idea of posting my To Do List here so that, even if I accomplish all of this through the sordid motivations of shame and fear, at least it will be done.

I'll highlight items in red as they are completed.

Finish skirt.
Finish shirtwaist. Took WAY longer than I had anticipated.
Finish sunbonnet. NOT a cakewalk; no wonder milliners were in high demand.
Make apron.
Sew snaps on petticoat.
Sew buttons on P's shirt.
Buy groceries.
Buy diapers.
Check kids' church clothes.
Re-pack church bag.
Wipe out spice cupboard.
Wipe down fridge shelves.
Make whey.
Grind wheat.
Make bread.
Make lentil soup.
Make pasta sauce.
Make cobblers.
Make scones.
Make cookies.
Make muffins.
Pack.
Get out kids' insurance cards and write down emergency phone numbers.
Do laundry.
Send A's package.
Buy J's gift.
Buy C's gift.
Give P her stuff.
Clean up desk.
Get 72-hour kits out from under bed and put on hall closet shelf.
Fix Miss Spider book.
Teach ARP class.
Teach Temple Prep class.
Water seedlings.
Plant cherry tree and sea buckthorn trees. Christian dug the holes.
Spray roses with organic fungicide.
Pick up Tess's ice cream cake. The awesome Julia, owner of Blue Pig Ice Cream, will deliver it Sunday morning.
Wrap Tess's presents. Difficult, since they haven't arrived yet.
Refuse to panic.
Change sheets.
Plant lily and snowdrop bulbs I forgot about until I started cleaning my desk just now.
Make sure car is clean.
Transplant geraniums. (Actually, they are pelargoniums.)
Purge Daniel's drawers of tiny stuff to make room for box of hand-me-downs.
Go to bank. Patrick did this for me.
Go to grocery store AGAIN. Patrick did this. Thanks, hon!
Tidy linen closet.
Tidy bedroom closets.

Have you noticed that I keep adding stuff to the list? No matter; I'll get it done.

Updated 6/1 at 12:04 p.m.: Well, I got close! The bulbs and pelargoniums will keep until I get home. Cross your fingers that Tess's presents get here this afternoon or tomorrow; her birthday is Sunday, and we're having her party right when we get home Sunday afternoon.

Thanks to you all for your encouragement! It means so much to me. I'll be back online Monday morning.

When I stall out on one of the novels I’m writing and start wondering why I even try, I sometimes cheer myself up and get myself going again by indulging in the following daydream:

My first mainstream fantasy novel is published. It’s gotten some nice reviews, and people other than my family members are actually buying it and reading it. One day I get a call from Locus magazine; the fine editors thereof would like to interview me and put a flattering photograph of me on the cover of their publication.

I’m thrilled, since I’ve been reading Locus on and off for something like 25 years. The assigned interviewer emails me some preliminary questions, and they go something like this….

Actually, the following questions were posed by the fantabulous RaJ. Maybe if Locus ever actually does want to interview me, I can request that he do the job free-lance, because he’s really good at making up stuff to ask people.

1) You decide to write the story of your life as a series of novels, one book per decade. What are the titles?

Doh! RaJ, stop stealing ideas out of my head!

Decade 0-9: Michelle, Ma Belle (I went by my middle name until my junior year of high school; I used to think Paul McCartney wrote that song just for me.)
Decade 10-19: Message in a Bottle
Decade 20-29: Under the Blossom
Decade 30-39: The Smallest Seed

2) If you could make one trip through time – a minimum of one hundred years in the past – and visit with one person for an hour, whom would you want to meet and what would you ask or say?

Just one person? Just one hour? Okay, okay; I’ll quit whining.

I'd have a universal translator, right? If so, I would visit my ancestor Alice de Montmorency; she must have been terribly lonely while her husband, Simon de Montfort, was away at the Albigensian Crusade. I’d want to meet her children; I’d ask her for a tour of her house and grounds, all the while peppering her with questions about life at the court of Philip II.

3) In an odd coincidence, you too find yourself at the terminus of a trans-galactic wormhole, face to face with a genuine space alien. This alien comes from a world of Deep Thought, full of engineering and scientific marvels but no “society”; members of its race have lived in solitude and isolation for eons. The alien wants you to explain your best friend in fifty words or less (work with me here okay?). Given a few minutes to compose your answer, what would be your response?

My best friend is not essential, as your antennae are not, Gentle Alien; but would you want to live without them? Think psychic mirror; think completion of a two-part puzzle. Though Day and Night are pleasant in isolation, experienced together they complement one another in a joyous, eternal dance.

4) What is Luisa's kryptonite i.e. your "one" weakness, your point of vulnerability where your super powers seem to fail?

Pride. All my troubles stem from it; all my bad choices are born of it.

5) Multiple choice (you get to pick which one you want to answer):
a) How can you mend a broken heart?
b) Skip ahead a few years to a time when a human brain – thoughts, memories, the whole works – can be fully and verifiably "saved" and restored to and from digital media. For all practical purposes this would enable a person to persist for hundreds, even thousands of years using replacement "bodies," or even to exist without organic bodies as we know them. Do you think we would lose something essentially human in this process? Why or why not?

Though I enjoy those Bee Gees (and their late lamented foxy little brother), my inner/outer SF geek chooses b).

Digital storage of the contents of the brain would be cool, but I think this too, too solid flesh is crucial to the human experience. Creators of virtual reality are always seeking to make it more ‘real,’ i.e. truer to our normal perceptions. We can’t seem to do without the myriad sensate inputs that generally go unnoticed until they are gone.

More information than you probably want: I occasionally use a facial hair removal product on my upper lip; one time when Daniel was tiny, I got a little nuts and put it on my jawline as well.
I experienced almost instant regret. Rubbing my cheek on the top of my baby’s downy little head—an indulgence I savored at every possible opportunity—was much less pleasurable for at least a week. Those tiny hairs had been transmitters I had taken for granted, part of a sensual experience I wouldn’t ever trade for a slightly less hirsute visage.

Therefore I think the generation of replacement bodies—or the availability of forms incorruptible—would be key for life as we know and enjoy it to continue indefinitely.

Thanks, RaJ! That was good fun.

I’m a bit nervous about this post. There are many bloggers who are open about their faith. While I admire these people and am often inspired by what they write, my own spiritual life is an intensely personal experience that I find difficult to articulate and share.

Last week I heard something in church that lit up my brain like a neon sign. The speaker said simply this: “Prayer should be the highlight of our day.” Really? I thought. Well, yes, of course. Prayer is a conversation with God, after all. It should be the highlight of my day. I must confess that this statement rattled me so much that I couldn’t focus on the rest of what was said. I’ve been mulling it over ever since.

I do hear God whisper to me often. There is certain music that always opens up a heavenly conduit for me. The beauty of our natural surroundings, the light that emanates from the faces of my children, many passages of scripture—all these things and more have been sources of revelation and inspiration for me. I pray regularly: morning, evening, over meals, little missives sent up into the ether during the day expressing thanks or need. But I am sorry to say that these moments have often occurred out of habit and have not been the highlight of my day.

I can think of many conversations that have been highlights: moments of shared experience with close friends; quirky turns of phrase my children come up with; good news rejoiced over, bad news commiserated with. The best interchanges are those I have with people with whom I have a long, shared history built on the foundation of love and mutual respect.

It would be a highlight of my year to talk to certain people: various ancestors, any of a number of Dead British People, one or two intelligent-seeming celebrities. I imagine myself gearing up for some one-on-one time with, say, Toni Morrison. What would I want to ask this wise, talented woman? What would I be willing to reveal about myself? How would I prepare so as to make best use of her time?

Toni Morrison is amazing, but let’s face it: she’s not God. The King of the Universe, who happens to be the Eternal Father of my spirit, is willing to be in communication with me at my convenience. Shouldn’t I put a little more effort into enhancing the quality of the time I spend with Him? Why is it so easy to forget how important God is to me, and how important I, one of his daughters, am to Him?

The growth and maintenance of a successful relationship is work, an aggregation of small daily choices that can become more than the sum of its parts if allowed to reach critical mass. I’m quite vigilant about remembering to make those choices with the people who live in my house—I believe with good results. It’s clear to me that I should expand those choices into my relationship with God. I now believe that I need prayer to become the highlight of every day.

This morning I walked down to the graveyard to pick up James from the Memorial Day Parade. The cemetery gates are about a quarter mile from our house; the whole way there, I could hear the local pipe and drum corps skirling out a patriotic hymn. I’m not a real flag-waver, preferring to consider myself a citizen of the world, but a good bagpiper does get my blood stirring. The air was fresh after last night’s thunderstorm, and I could smell wild roses and mountain ash blossoms. God gently reminded me of His grandeur and mercy; I answered Him with a resolve to keep His glory closer to the forefront of my mind, days, and prayers.

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
—Rudyard Kipling, “Recessional”

Looking west from the threshold between the den and the living/dining room (between what used to be the living room and the dining room/kitchen)

Looking northeast from the corner shown in the first picture

The new cooking area is where the old kitchen table used to be.

The new deck is made out of ipe wood.

I feel very, very lucky to live in the house of my dreams (not the childhood dream where I fantasized about living in a Fotomat booth; the dream I had after I discovered the Pre-Raphaelites and the Arts & Crafts Movement). It is modest-sized by today's McMansion standards, about 2,000 square feet. But it's the perfect size for us and suits our needs exactly.

Anyone contemplating building a new house or renovating an old one should read Sarah Susanka's The Not-So-Big House; it influenced our design tremendously. Patrick gets all the credit for figuring out the new 'flow' of the downstairs. He also gets all the credit for financing the project; thanks, honey!

*I'm not quite sure what Ted Geisel was up to when he wrote There's a Wocket in my Pocket! It's my least favorite of all the Dr. Seuss books--nowhere near the caliber of The Sneetches or The Sleep Book, for example. But I do like the last line.

Something bad happens to my brain when I don't get enough sleep. Oh, yes, there's the crankiness, but my baseline a.m. grump level is sufficiently high so as to render any temporary spike imperceptible.

No, the bad thing to which I refer is the complete lack of mental cohesion I experience. This is why I didn't write at all for the twelve years I was either pregnant or nursing. I can't string two thoughts together for the life of me when I'm this tired. Today, don't call me Ishmael; instead call me 'Randomina.' Or 'Randomella.' 'Randi,' for short--but make sure to dot that 'i' with a little heart, or I'll subtract points for misspelling.

Someone who has been a close friend of mine for 19 years, yet shall remain nameless so that I can pay finger service to preserving his illusion of privacy, sends me links to unusual websites once in a while. It used to be that when he did this, I would think, "Where does he find this stuff? And, more importantly, why?"

I don't wonder anymore, because now I know the answers to both questions. It's the wonder of that random place we call The Internet. Can you fathom the magic, the wizardry, the genius of something that rewards you for typing the words 'watermelon sculpture' into a little box with something like this?

Here's Daniel with his birthday loot. All three of his presents--giant stuffed sea turtle from us, play camera and drill from Ma & Pa--were huge hits. Before I tell you more, let me acknowledge that I am on (in) a Pop Song Blog Title roll (rut).

Big fun was had at Daniel's shin-dig last night. As promised, I'll recount the making of the Chocolate Lace Cake.

(Not really. That's me two years ago winning something else. The photo is here mainly to make the fabulous pezmama happy.)

I'll go celebrate all these victories by eating some leftover cake!

If idle hands are the devil's workshop, I should be demon-free for the next several weeks. We've got all kinds of doings on the agenda here at the Perkins Homestead. Here's an update on activities recently past and in the immediate future.

Saturday I had huge success tracking down details about my cousin Albert Vanderveer (above) and his family. When I work on genealogy, I feel like a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Lara Croft. Just can't get enough.

My favorite living writer, Mark Helprin, had an Op-Ed published in yesterday's New York Times. Read it here while it's still free. It's so great to read something non-fiction of his that I agree with; he and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum.

Today a certain sweet toddler turns three. I'll be making my famous Chocolate Lace Cake in his honor this afternoon (I'll post photos tomorrow).

What with the cake, the Weed Dragon, the Trek, the book, not to mention Little League, dance, the piano recital, and several Memorial Day social engagements, I'd better get on the stick right away. I'll be back soon!

I've been having a grand time with Radioactive Jam's Titanium Haiku Contest. It brings back sweet memories of adolescence; I'll sketch a couple of scenes for you.
Three years later, my Debate and Reader's Theater partner, Jim Orlando, was one of my best (read: only) friends. Traveling to and from Speech and Debate Tournaments, Jim and I kept stage fright at bay by composing outrageous blues verses. These were in A-B-B-A (not the supergroup), call and response form:

Jim: Really late last Saturday night-nah nah na-na-na naaaah-nah.

Luisa: Joanie and me, we had a fight-nah nah na-na-na naaaah-nah.
She told me my speech was bad-nah nah na-na-na naaaah-nah.

Jim: I gave her a slap like she'd never had-nah nah na-na-na naaaah-nah.

...ad infinitum.

The key to this game was coming up with a perfectly scanning and rhyming line to the one first set out without any kind of pause. The scat breaks gave us a little extra time to think. Beats could be subdivided, if necessary. We never got tired of this, and it had the added advantage of keeping us mentally in sync; that year the two of us went to State Championships in the Model Congress event.

My takeaway on these images of versifications past? A) I'm a doggerel junkie; and B) road trips seem to be conducive to inspiration. Next time I feel any writer's block, I'm heading for the parkway.

I love it when my kids get out of school and are around all summer long. I love that they can play and read for hours on end. I also love what has become a family tradition: we have had a home-summer school every summer for the past nine years. We spend two to three hours together each weekday with structured schedules and high expectations.

Every May I take inventory of what we have, figure out what we need, then order it so that we'll have it by the end of June when 'regular' school gets out. That's what I'm doing today.

Here's what we use:

Overall Guiding Syllabus and Inspiration: The Well-Trained Mind (TWTM)
Grammar: Rod & Staff Building English series
Spelling: Spelling Workout series
Penmanship: Rod & Staff Penmanship series
Math: Saxon series
Art: Drawing with Children, Drawing with Older Children & Teens, museum websites
French: The Rosetta Stone program

A caveat on the Rod & Staff curriculum: These are scripture-based books published by devout Mennonites in Kentucky. I use them because they are the most rigorous, thorough texts available. Because we are Bible-readin' Christians, I don't mind assigning my children to write out or diagram sentences like "John, the son of Zacharias and Elizabeth, was the forerunner of Christ" or "Abraham, trusting in God's promise, obeyed His command"--but you might.

Usually we follow TWTM's comprehensive four-year rotating History/Science curriculum, but this year we're taking an interdisciplinary approach to that carrot of all carrots: The School of Rock. Yes, just like in the fabulous movie, we'll have courses in Rock History, Rock Theory, and Rock Appreciation. It may sound like a boondoggle, but we'll be working hard on analytical skills and expository writing, with daily, level-appropriate essay assignments.

Luckily, I've already prepared the School of Rock syllabus. My uber-friend Shauna has created 17 CDs to supplement our own collection for the listening/appreciation sections. We started the School of Rock last summer, but chose to abort the mission due the insanity of the house renovation. The kids are raring to go this year and are especially excited about our culminating Road/Field Trip to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland at the end of August.

We use a very effective reward system, with the kids earning stickers for every subject assignment accomplished every day. At the beginning of the summer, they each choose something they'd like to earn, a Harry Potter book on CD, for instance, then we figure out how many pages of stickers they'll need to fill up to earn it. Piano practice and a minimum of a half hour of independent reading are also mandatory, daily sticker-earning activities (independent reading is always a slam dunk).

There is occasional grumbling, but for the most part our program runs smoothly. I always have the kids start with math, grammar, and penmanship, since these are the least liked subjects. Science and history (and School of Rock this year), being the most fun, are saved for the end of the school 'day.' The baby naps, then plays with math manipulatives, pattern blocks, or puzzles while the rest of the kids study.

Patrick watched me climb into bed the other night with an enormous Stephen King library book under my arm and remarked, "I just don't understand why you like to be scared." I've been chewing over that comment ever since, because I like to feel completely understood by Patrick at all times. For me, feeling understood equals feeling loved.

The next morning, an award-winning bloggy pal wrote a post about having read Stephen King's memoir/writing manual, and I felt the coincidence was too good to pass up.

I don't know whether many readers of this blog have read much of King's work. Some, like Patrick, shy away from horror fiction for various reasons. Others may be too busy reading Litrahchah; still others may not want that much sheer poundage for their reading buck.

I don't read Stephen King because I like to be scared, though his books can often be terrifying. I'm not recommending his work; even his less grim stories are liberally peppered with earthy language and grisly images. They are not for the faint of heart, or for those under the age of seventeen (yes, Christian, that's when I'll let you start reading them). But I will tell you that I think Stephen King is one of the great writers of our time, right up there with Mark Helprin, Umberto Eco, and Don DeLillo. Here are some of the reasons why I love him:

10) He's an original. He has a distinctive writing style and voice which he has honed over years of consistent work. He has re-worked old tropes and invented new ones that have become iconic in our culture. Think of Jack Nicholson grinning through a splintered bathroom door, the epitome of a violent paranoiac. But there are plenty more. Troubled teenage wallflower? Call her Carrie. Aggressive dog? 'Cujo' is the shorthand term you're looking for.

9) He taught me to listen to people others dismiss as crazy, to see them with fresh and open eyes. In the world according to King, it is usually the crazy people who see things as they really are. I find this instructive, with biblical precedent.

There was a man who would walk the streets of Manhattan when we lived there, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Alleluia, ah-lay-looooo-yuh, JEE-zuzzz." We would hear him at all hours and in a variety of neighborhoods. I've always wondered what motivated that guy, whether he saw himself as a latter-day Jeremiah or John, a voice crying in the wilderness of New York City. You can bet that he'll end up in a book of my own someday. I learn something new about myself when I pay attention to those who are a little (or a lot) marginal. And they make great characters.

8) SK is passionate about baseball. 'Nuff said.

7) He doesn't take himself too seriously. I have no patience for writers or actors who start talking in lofty tones about their 'craft,' reinforcing the mystique that they are somehow better than the plebes that make up their audiences. When asked about his work, my pal Stephen says that he simply loves telling a good story, and that he is grateful to have been able to support his family doing so. Down to earth. Confident in his gift, but with no pretensions to grandeur. Love it.

6) He tells a wing-ding of a story. His books are whoppers in the best speculative fiction sense of the term--tall tales like those told around campfires. The characters are complex; the conversations sound authentic. The stories feel true, even at their most unreal. An underlying theme of much of his work is the stark symmetry of the opposites found everywhere around us in the world: peace and hatred; beauty and atrocity; good and evil.

5) His book On Writing is one of two writing manuals worth anything at all, in my opinion (the other one is Anne LaMott's Bird by Bird). Tangent: here are the other books worth having on your shelf if you want to write fiction: a good dictionary; a good thesaurus; Strunk & White; a good grammar book; and The Chicago Manual of Style.

4) Stephen is unbelievably prolific, having written 45 novels in 33 years, plus a whole lot of short stories, quite a few screenplays, and a pack of non-fiction. He doesn't understand why this astonishes people. In On Writing, he comments, "If God gives you something you can do, why in God's name wouldn't you do it?" Amen. I've enjoyed at least a book per year of his for the past 25 years; I am confident that this bounty will continue as long as we are both alive.

3) He can make a long plane ride feel like five minutes. There are many great writers whose work I can enjoy in small packages: a chapter here, a chapter there a week later, if need be. Stevie is one of a handful of authors whose books I save for the binge times. If I can, I'll read them straight through in a day or two, absentmindedly shoving DVDs and boxes of crackers towards my family members when they make a bid for my attention. Among other writers in this category are George R.R. Martin, Tad Williams, Peter Straub, and Diana Gabaldon.

2) He's not perfect. He's written a few spectacularly bad books: The Tommyknockers and Rose Madder come to mind. But he's a fighter. He kicked drugs, cigarettes, and alcohol years ago; more recently, he fully recovered from severe injuries, including a shattered hip, after being hit by a car while walking near his house.

Anyone who can come back from scathing reviews, unrelenting snobbery, serious addiction, and several weeks in intensive care has big-time character. You want more evidence of his character? He's been happily married to his college sweetheart for close to forty years. His three grown children adore him. That's all I need.

1) He asks deep questions and wrestles with them all the way through his stories. Sometimes he comes up with answers, sometimes not. That's fine with me; I like questions better than answers anyway.

His books are almost always allegorical, but because King doesn't have a didactic bone in his body, the deeper story never shows through at the plot's expense--brilliant. Stevie has a great heart; he believes that good will prevail. This may sound wiggy to anyone who has ever seen The Shining, but I feel uplifted and energized after reading his work. He inspires me to be a better writer, but more importantly, he inspires me to be a better person.

If someone were undaunted by my caveats and wanted a good introduction to Mr. King's work, I would recommend:

1) The Green Mile
2) The Talisman (written with Peter Straub)
3) The Shining
4) The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
5) Lisey's Story

If you get that far, write me; we'll chat. Until then, I can't wait for Duma Key!

Here are some flowers from my yard for you in honor of Mother's Day. The lilacs make the whole house smell heavenly. I hope your day was as great as mine was!

Mine started off with ambrosial French toast made by my personal chef. Church was lovely: the kids sang and I got appropriately misty. Bonus: all the moms scored charming little boxes of fabulous See's candy! It's hard to get in the Northeast, so it was doubly treasured even as I scarfed it down.

I received handmade items: sweet cards, a beautiful tissue paper corsage, and bright paper lilies that now grace my dresser. My very exciting gift from the family was my very own Weed Dragon! I cannot wait to flame all the dandelions and plantains in the entire yard. It might even be able to vanquish the dreaded ground ivy. I'm raring to go.

In the late afternoon, my personal chef fired up the grill and made his patent-pending Boursin Burgers. I drool at the memory. Really: Patrick makes the best burgers in the universe; even his regular cheeseburgers are better than any others I've ever tasted.

The weather was perfect--cool breezes, warm sun, brilliant azure sky--truly fit for a queen. I'll toddle off to bed now feeling pampered and special. Thanks, guys!

I know that panic and other strong emotions tend to bring out the California in me, but seriously. Dude. Where is it?

I last remember seeing it last Saturday--I think. Life is a blur when you are on deadline.

It's making me a little nutty. (Okay, nuttier.) Of course, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and while I always want to knit, anxiety is bringing on a downright craving.

I'm usually very organized and have great visuospatial memory. When Patrick can't find his glasses or his wallet or his keys, I almost always know exactly where they are. Essential things like my knitting bag have specific places where I put them; this is a fact upon which we all have relied in this household. Until now.

First that photo goes missing, then my all-important knitting bag. I'm worried that next to go will be my mind. Dude....

It's time for a hard-target search.

One of my favorite parenting stories involves my sister, her first husband, and their son, Sam. Going home from some social event, Bill turned to Angie and asked, "Do you think it makes other people sad that their kids aren't as cute as Sam?"

I've smiled about that anecdote for years. It seems that every parent secretly (or not) feels that his or her child is superlative--although speaking semi-objectively, Sam was the most adorable baby ever. Until Christian came along, that is.

After a somewhat colicky start in life, Christian came into his own as a sweet, funny, precociously verbal child. We spent all day, every day together, and I don't remember ever getting tired of his companionship. As if he knew that one of the ways to my heart was through books, he would remain entranced as I read aloud to him for literally hours on end. Sometimes I'd get hoarse because we'd been reading for so long. When I was busy with other things, he'd sit happily with a big stack of books at his side, making his way through them over and over again.

Like many little boys, he had a deep love for trucks of all sorts. A highlight of his week was garbage pick-up day. He would perch on top of the radiator cover in front of his bedroom window and look down at the garbage truck picking up our apartment building's trash. Load, load, crash, grind: this was a show that never got old. Once, at a dinner party, he told a friend of ours, "I want to be a garbage man when I grow up. My parents think that's funny."

Christian was able to relate to people of all ages, initiating conversation with strangers and putting them at ease. He had so many interests that he had something in common with nearly everyone. He never got tired of trips to the "Dinosaur Museum" or the "Pyramid Museum." He had names for the various playgrounds we frequented in Central and Riverside Parks: "Volcano," "Pirate," "Turtle," "Hippo." His joy and enthusiasm for life were infectious.

Through his early life, I kept telling myself that this couldn't last. I braced myself for the pre-pubescent and teen years, when surely our friendship would be put on hold for at least a decade. I know it's still early (and I'm knocking on all kinds of wood), but at thirteen-and-a-half, Christian remains delightful.

He cheerfully does whatever I ask of him, from practicing the piano to changing Daniel's diaper. He is close to his siblings, who bask in his kindness and attention. He bears his infrequent punishments with good grace and apologizes sincerely and promptly when he has made a mistake. He is thrilled for the success of others and can laugh at himself, two signs of humility that I prize highly. Does he have flaws? Oh, yes. But you won't hear about them from me. He knows what they are, and we see him working to remove them.

Woo-hoo! We just found out that the Judge handed down his decision. He upheld the vote as legal and valid and ordered the Town Board to pay the Library all funds owed immediately!

A favorite song from childhood goes, "Saturday, it's a special day/It's the day we get ready for Suuunnn-day!" Other people I know have two days to their weekend; since we are pretty narrow in our definition of appropriate Sunday activities, my Saturdays are always jam-packed.