Yeah, so...I don't know.
Claire yanked out one of her top front teeth two nights ago. She had been in bed, but pranced downstairs around 9:30, a bloody Kleenex in one hand, her tooth in the other. While Max is the type to whimper until I gently tug a dangling incisor out, Claire will find one that's only slightly wiggly and wrench it around until it pops into her palm.
She now looks like a little hillbilly, but is thrilled. I wonder how much longer we can get away with this tooth fairy schtick. J. got a whole roll of golden dollars and is stoked to slip one under her pillow.
I just sold our kitchen range. It was a complete beater. It had suffered years of abuse (mostly mine) and kind of limped along (think the van in Little Miss Sunshine). I'm relieved it's out of the garage, but I was bested in negotiations. I considered giving the thing away for free on Craigslist, so what do I care that I only got two-thirds of the asking price. It's better than nothing. But still, I hate that I'm terrible at bartering.
This actual sentence popped out of J.'s mouth tonight and skittered around the room like an injured cricket: "When you're my age, I'll be dead." He was speaking to Claire.
He's said similar things lots of times. But on this night, I snapped a little. Right now is the one time in Max and Claire's lives that they don't have to think too much about mortality, right? I mean, they're realizing, they're starting to learn that animals and people don't live forever, but hopefully they're not immersed in those thoughts, aren't dwelling on it. So, no reason to drive the point home.
I'm pretty sure he thought I was overreacting when I growled at him not to talk like that in front of the kids. But, knowing J., he'll take it to heart and cease. I hope. Otherwise, you know, dukes up.
My uncle Chad is in town. We met for lunch yesterday. In the 41 years I've known him, I'm quite sure we've never shared a meal, just he and I. It was fun, all that unbroken conversation. I love the guy. He's super upbeat. Comfortable. Just my dad's brother. (He and my dad both call each other George, even though that is neither of their names. And, despite that they've told me the reason multiple times, I can never remember what it is.)
This afternoon the kids were raking leaves in the driveway when I spotted a piece of paper. I picked it up and found a poem. It didn't particularly resonate with me, but was apparently written by a local Seattle blogger who leaves print outs of his poetry in a box on Capitol Hill. How it found its way all the way over here, I don't know. But I liked the symbolism. Like a message in a bottle.