The wonderful world of adoption

A young couple I'm fairly close to (that translates to we're related by marriage and see each other at a lot of family gatherings and I like them a lot) has been fostering two little pre-school sisters of mixed race for 20 months. Today, the court finalized their adoption papers, and they are a family for sure. My daughter sent me a wonderful picture of all of them--including grandparents and the judge--taken after the ceremony. It made my day, and I've been going around with a  happy smile. As long as the children were under the jurisdiction of the Child Protective Service,  no one could take their picture, so it was moving to see them all together in a picture. Those are lucky parents--for over a year and a half they could have lost the children--and those are lucky little girls. They came from a background of abuse and neglect--the night, late, that they arrived at their new home they were dirty and hungry. Now they're happy, secure, well-fed and, yeah, a bit spoiled but only enough to be endearing. They are learning the limits of good behavior, something they never would have learned in their original environment.
I have been to court four times to finalize adoptions, and each time it was a thrilling moment. The same judge presided at three of the four proceedings--the legendary Honorable Scott Moore, who was known as the best child advocate in the county. But I had never had to contend with biological parents who wanted their children back, CPS, or any of the difficulties this young couple has faced. Still I identify with them.
I remember once at my house the mother said fiercely, "These are my kids now." I know just how she felt, and I'm not sure people outside the adoption experience understand the feeling. Mine are not my adopted children--they are my children, born of and in my heart if not of my flesh and blood. Oh, yes, sometimes the subject of adoption comes up in conversation, but they treat it casually and so do I. We are one of the closest families I know, and I love it. I don't quite know how to put it in words, but over the years I have heard remarks from others that you don't really have a child until you give birth or nurse or whatever. It's not true. For some reason, as a single parent, I have been lucky beyond belief--I have four kids who have grown to be substantial citizens and loving parents, while remaining loving children. A lot of biological families can't say that. I've heard people say they wouldn't adopt because you never know what you'd get--true of biological children too, though I've kept my tongue in my head. And others say no, they wouldn't feel the same about a child that didn't have their blood. I keep quiet then too and pity the speaker.
Do I want my children to find their biological parents? Honest answer, no. They are my children, they carry my values and training and shaping, if not my genes. I can't say it enough. They are mine! And none of them, now in their 30s and 40s, show any interest anyway.
When you adopt and are open about it, you find it's a small world--people say, "Oh, I'm adopted," or "My children are adopted" or whatever. There's a whole world of happy adoptive families out there, and I'm glad to welcome this couple into that circle. And so glad their uncertainty has come to an end. I don't feel at liberty to publish the picture of the new family, but here's a picture of my happy family. The young man next to me is my oldest son; the pretty blonde on the other side is the next in line; then there's Jamie, with the dark hair, at the far right of the picture; and my youngest daughter is kneeling in the front with her husband and son. Good-looking, aren't they?

Goodbye, Casey Anthony

The Casey Anthony trial is over and done with, and we can all move on with our lives. I have mixed emotions about it but will trust in the judgment of twelve of Anthony's peers. As one of my friends pointed out on Facebook, almost 1800 children in this country are killed or go missing every year. Why did the media fixate on this one case? Maybe because of the month delay in reporting the child missing? Maybe because of the mother's lifestyle? What does it matter? It's taken up way too much of our time and attention.
On the Sisters in Crime listserv and on a couple of blogs, a handwriting expert, Sheila Connally, has come forward with her analysis of the writing of the Anthony family members and of Casey's boyfriend who figured in the case--though I gathered they'd broken up before Caylee disappeared. Connally concludes that the Anthonys are a family of liars--Casey has lots of secrets, shows the signs of someone who has been abused and wants to separate herself from her family; her father shows the signs of a control freak and a liar; the mother is the good girl who will do anything to protect her family--and apparently has. Only the son/brother, Lee, comes off sympathetically in this exercise--he feels he's not been part of the family unit (maybe he should be grateful) and feels alienated from them but is otherwise a pretty normal guy. The ex-boyfriend is a nice guy caught in a bad place.
Who knows how credible handwriting analysis is--some came forward to contradict these interpretations right away but a part of me surely believes there's something really wrong in this family picture. Nonetheless, it's not for us to say, and soon another sensational story will, thank goodness, replace it in the news.
In the meantime, RIP Caylee Anthony. I hope they stop putting those pictures of you on TV, because they break my heart every time I see them. And Casey Anthony? Goodbye comes from a contraction of God be with you--and I hope she will recognize that. She'll need all the help she can get as she goes forward, if she does.

Happy Fourth of July

My celebration of the 4th was going to be to take Jacob to the neighborhood parade. When he woke up, all sweet because he was still sleepy, he said, "I've never seen a parade." I explained this would be a small one. We picked out his clothes, I fixed his breakfast, and he announced: I've been to a parade. I don't got to go again." He adamantly did not want to go. Turned out he was fearful there would be fireworks, which I assured him there wouldn't. He still didn't want to go, so I put on my "house" clothes again and went out to water plants on the porch--where I saw all kinds of neighbors walking toward the parade, including my next-door neighbors that Jacob considers his special friends. When I reported this, he said, "I want to go." So we got dressed, with him shouting, "Hurry up, Juju!" And we went to the parade, which truly was a bit of a disappointment--except Jacob was enthralled by the kid who had a miniature motor-powered car. It was mostly neighbors walking, some with decorated wagons or other children's vehicles, then a police car,and  the cars. Jacob wasn't much taken by my suggestion that next year we could decorate my VW bug convertible and drive in the parade.
Earlier that morning I'd noticed that my black bag of clippings was gone from the front  yard--I planned to work some more on cone flowers tonight. Then I saw that the cone flowers had all been cut back. I "accused" Jay and Susan next door but they denied it. At the parade, Jacob and I parked ourselves by Greg and Jaimie's house, Greg being the one who keeps my garden lovely. Turns out they had come up at 6:30 in the morning and done it because Jaimie said to Greg, "We've got to do something about Judy's flowers." Greg has a new pacemaker and is not supposed to do ANTYHING! But he said Jaimie brought him up and she bagged while he cut. Such wonderful neighbors. He says he feels great and hates his house arrest.
Jacob left at noon to go to a nearby lake with his parents and then watch the fireworks at the country club. That two-faced child told his dad he wasn't afraid of fireworks and he hadn't said that at all. I'd misunderstood him. Yeah, sure.
It seems I'm in deep disgrace tonight. I wrote Colin to ask how their day was and he pointedly wrote back to say it was fine and so was their eleventh anniversary yesterday--plus he still carries a grudge because I didn't call on his birthday, though honest I didn't forget it--I called the next morning. Birthdays I always remember but I'm not so good at anniversaries. But, yes, they married eleven years ago on Grand Cayman and we all had a blast at the wedding. If I forgot that one, then I also forgot Jamie and Mel's fourteenth which was June 27 or 29--see, I'm not even sure what date. Contrary to Colin's conviction, it does not mean that I love my sons less--it just means that I am forgetful about anniversaries. But I hereby publicly apologize and wish all parties many more years of happiness.
Something else I forgot: one of the members of my memoir class asked me to look at the first eighty pages of her memoir--weeks ago. It dawned on me today I hadn't done it, so that was how I spent the day. Tonight back to work on my own stuff, until it's time to take a glass of wine to the porch and listen to the fireworks. Jacob said he just wanted to hear them, not see them, and I agree. Sitting directly under them always makes me think I'm going to have a heart attack!

Good small things about a holiday weekend

When I had a houseful of teenagers, weekends, especially holiday weekends, were wonderful, crowded with my children and their friends coming and going. I routinely cooked Sunday dinner for at least ten and usually more. I loved the hectic atmosphere. But now that I live alone, weekends tend to be long, and I confess that I dreaded this holiday a bit. Then again, I'm a different person these days (I think)--more relaxed and able to go with the flow. I can spend a morning getting my household going, taking care of my animals and plants, reading email, exercising, showering--suddenly it's almost lunch time, and that's some of what happened this weekend. Another good thing was Jacob--he spent Friday night and is spending Sunday night with me. So here are a few things that I think made it a good weekend:
--Jacob and I spent Friday night in companionable silence. He was on his bed in the playroom, watching TV, worn out as he often is at the end of a school day; he likes me to be in the room but not bother him, so I usually find something I can do away from the computer. This night I sorted recipes, which for me is fun. We had a pleasant evening together.
--I spent a lot of time researching anchovies and anchovy recipes for my food blog, Potluck with Judy, and was pleased with the results--it could have been twice as long. But I'm not sure if anyone read it. Although I'm supposed to post it on Sunday nights, I got mixed up because I wrote it last night and went ahead and posted it. It's a funny thing about blogs--those you think will get lots of comments don't, and the most offhand comment on Facebook can draw twenty comments or more. I love anchovies, but if you're leery of them, check out this blog post. http://potluckwithjudy.blogspot.com.
--Saturday morning Jacob and I went to Central Market. I didn't have a long shopping list and didn't need meat, which often means waiting a long time. He had a delightful time riding on the end of the cart and putting his toys in the rack there--have you ever tried to steer a cart with an almost-fifty lb. boy child on the other end? Hard to do. (Yes, he's in the higher weight percentile and the doctor has begun to talk to his parents about his snacks.) We came home and had lunch--he ate almost a whole can of Spaghetti-Os, a half ear of corn, and a chocolate waffle. Maybe the latter was dessert?
--Saturday night and again Sunday morning I forgot about dietary cautions and indulged myself. Sat. night I put chocolate/mint sauce on one of the small ice cream cups I keep for Jacob and the other grandchildren (I never put chocolate sauce on them for anyone else); this morning I scrambled not one but two eggs with smoked salmon.
--Saturday night I went out on the porch with a glass of wine and a book, but the dead cone flowers caught my eye. Greg, who keeps my garden in order, is out on medical leave for three weeks, but these flowers really look ugly. They need to be cut back and the heads scattered where they are to seed for next year. I don't usually try it because my footing on the lawn is uncertain--no, let's say my confidence in my footing is uncertain. But last night I took clippers, a lightweight bench (can't bend over and cut flowers for more than two seconds and this one bunch took 45 minutes) and a walking stick and attacked one whole bed of cone flowers. A double-size bed to go but I'll do it bit by bit in the cool (?) of the evening.
--A wonderful irony: yesterday the mail brought a royalty check from Amazon for $25.26 and an electric bill for $251.76. Something out of whack with my income and outgo, but it made me laugh.
--Tonight Jacob and I labored over his letter to our friend Weldon, who does something with comic books and online stuff and asked for a letter from Jacob about Kung Fu Panda. Jacob dictated to me, but his letter was basically asking Weldon to buy him some toys and then "Have a good day, Weldon" which he repeated five times--I think he's listened to his parents too long. He also got the giggles trying to tell me how grumpy he was. Yeah, sure.
--I'm re-reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout's voice is right on, and it reminds me all over again how important voice is in fiction. I've always said that Elmer Kelton's voice carries his fiction, and now I've found another voice perfectly on pitch. I'm reading this because I'm to be on a panel on the book in August and thought it might be a pain--but the reading makes it all worthwhile.
Jacob and I will probably go to the neighborhood parade tomorrow and then before lunch he'll go off with his folks. But I'm sure tomorrow will bring it's own small blessings.

Red Wing

A friend, Bob Reed, sent me his as-yet unpublished novel yesterday, hoping I'll blurb it--which I will after I've read it. But the title, "The Red-Winged Blackbird" sent my thoughts tumbling back to my dad.
 He was Canadian and had a bit of that British reserve about him--as well as what I considered a kind of droll accent when I got older. He was an osteopathic physician, president of an osteopathic college, and a hosital administrator, a man totally wrapped up in his work. His avocation was gardening, and we had the best backyard--and sideyard--for blocks. That's where Dad spent his weekends, looking like a homeless bum in dirty clothes. But he always dressed for dinner in a fresh white shirt--poor Mom. He was not one of those fathers who aimed to be my best buddy. He hugged and kissed, of course, and bragged about me to others. I have heard stories, even from him, about him taking me sledding when I was little--we lived on a park with a small hill, just right for toddler sledding. But I can't remember that he ever played with me. He was concerned about table manners and behavior and all those things. I know he loved me a lot and was proud of me, especially as I grew older, but he wasn't a pal as my boys are to their children. I should add that I went to work in his office when I was fourteen, and if I've had success as a press director, its because of the organizatonal habits he taught me then. I was given no leeway because I was the boss' daughter--I had to be better than everyone else, work harder, but I loved it.
The thing Dad and I did together was sing at the piano--never mind that neither of us could carry a tune. We were enthusiastic and hearty. Dad played out of several books--the Methodist hymnal, the American Heritage book of Favorite Songs, and a book that had everything from "Carry me back to my old Kentucky Home" to "Scotland's Burning, Scotland's Burning." We sang "Nearer my God to thee" and "Clementine" and--I particularly remember this, "Loch Lomond": Oh, ye take the high road, and I'll take the low,/ and I'll be in Scotland afore ye/But me and my true love/will never ever meet again/ on the bonny banks of Loch Lomond." My love of all things Scottish, of course, comes from my dad, who was fiercely proud of his MacBain Scottish heritage all his life.
Dad didn't play by ear, but there was one song he played from memory, "Red Wing." I never saw music or words for it. But Bob's title made me think of that song, so I looked it up on the Web today: it was copyrighted in 1907, is about Red Wing's love for Hiawatha, and has been sung by a variety of performers. The lyrics I remember are

Oh, the moon shines tonight on pretty Red Wing
the breeze is sighing,
the night bird's crying.
For afar 'neath his star
Her brave is sleeping
While Red Wing's weeping her heart away.

I'm not sure where a Canuck learned that song about American Indian lore, but he played it with gusto. Every once in a while, it comes to my mind and then the tune is stuck in my head for a while. But I like that. It brings back one of the best memories of Dad, who has been gone since 1979.
Bob Reed's title comes from a totally different song, "The Red-Winged Blackbird," written by Billy Edd Wheeler and sung by Joan Collins in the '60s. I'm a big Joan Collins' fan so I'm sure I'd like it. I looked it up on the web too and found lots of offers to make it the ring-tone on your cell phone. What is the world coming to?
Personally I'd like to have the Red Wing melody on my cell phone--it would be a nice reminder of good times.

On Learning to Write

This isn't BSP (blatant self promotion)--it's relative to the point I want to make, which is I apprently don't know how to write yet. I have been a published author for over 30 years, with 60 or more books to my credit if you count all those children's nonfiction books I did on assigment. But I've published fiction and nonfiction for adults and young readers, even a cookbook.
Now I'm writing mysteries (I have mentioned the forthcoming Skeleton in a Dead Space, havene't I? yes, I think so:-) I am doing the final edits on my second mystery manuscript, and the publisher's instructions are to search for those pesky adverbs by looking for words ending in "ly." I did and it was a humbling experience. I found I overuse the word "really" to an unbelievable extent, and "only" isn't far behind. Reconstructing sentences without those words was a challenge but fun. Then I moved on to the next search--for the word "had" to find passive voice. I could not believe the number of times "had been" appeared in the manuscript. I still have "was" and "ing" words to go. So far it's a humbling experience, which leaves me wondering if all my previous books are filled with those grammatical errors. I'm afraid to look.
I do have to say that looking searcing for these things is a long and boring process, so much so that sometimes my mind goes blank. But I'm persevering. When I finish, I still have to read the manuscript yet one more time to make sure I haven't introduced new errors in the process of correcting old ones. By the time I'm through, I'll be able to recite the darn thing from memory.
But the whole exercise is one of the best I've ever heard of for checking your manuscript. Thanks to Kim at Turquoise Morning Press for coming up with it.
The manuscript hasn't actually been accepted yet, but I have a proposal in and am quite hopeful. Keep your fingers crossed for me. The title of this one is for now No Neighborhood for Old Women. Yes, that's a spoof on Cormac McCarthy. When I began writing the manuscript, he had just turned down my good friend Marcia Daudistel on her request for an excerpt of his writing to include in an Literary El Paso, an anthology of the work of El Paso authors. I came up with the title off the top of my head, and she hooted with delight. More than that about the book, it's too soon to say. If it's accepted, I may have to change the title.
A food note: I know, I have a food blog but I can't resist sharing my menu tonight: a ground lamb patty with feta and chopped mint in it from Central Market (actually I ate about a third of the huge pattie) and fresh corn, cut off the cob after I boiled it, and mixed with salt and a bit of chiffonade of basil--no butter. So good!

Protecting a new puppy

If  you read my post on Facebook  yesterday, you know that I plan to get a new puppy from a litter of miniature Golden Doodles born in late May. My pup, almost for sure a female, will be eight weeks or thereabouts when I bring her home. I tell people I'm doing this for Scooby--he lies around all day, and I think he needs a playmate--and for Jacob, who is still leery of Scooby. I figure a puppy will be easier for him to "grow" with, though I'll have to curb his bossy tendencies. But of course the truth is I always wanted a doodle. I used to think I wanted a full-size labradoodle, but they can be 100 lbs., far too much dog for me to give it adequate exercise. I found a highly reputable golden doodle kennel in the Metroplex breeding miniatures and eventually filled out the form and made a deposit.
Yesterday I got eight pages of detailed instructions, everything from using a playpen on a tile floor (I don't have tile floors) to housebreaking, crate training, and food, probiotics, and shampoo. I ordered a playpen and made a wish list of the other dog supplies for my upcoming birthday--the heck with the iPad I thought I wanted.
But the thing that scared me most was the stern injunction about protecting your puppy, with its immature immune system, from parvo, a highly contagious virus that can kill puppies. You are not supposed to let your pup out in your front yard, for fear a dog carrying the virus has been there. I thought my back yard would be safe until I remembered I'd kept a stray back there some months ago for a few days. Scooby is immunized and safe, but not so a puppy and apparently the virus can linger. When you take the pup to the vet you should not set it on the floor, and when you leave, spray your shoes with disinfectant before getting into your car--a good trick while holding a wiggly puppy.
I began to have second thoughts. In fact, I had an epiphany and decided I would tell the breeders I'd wait for an older pup or a breeding dog they were phasing out of their program. As usual I jumped to that conclusion and it became a firm reality in my mind. I would email the breeder.
But I hesitated. I called Jordan--who thought I should go with the puppy. We agreed we'd go look at them and see how we felt and what older animals they had; then my brother called to report on his trip to England and France, and when I told him, he was quite firm that eight weeks if the perfect time to take a pup from the kennel, even home-raised pups. He was most encouraging, so now I'm back to getting this tiny pup. It will take all my time for a while. I hope Jacob and Scooby like her. Wynona the cat will try to act as if she doesn't exist.
Wish me well. I've had all kinds of offers of help. Wonder if I have to make guests take off their shoes or spray them before they come in the house?

Sweet Dreams

Every night Jacob says, "Sweet dreams," and whoever is kissing him goodnight says, "Sweet dreams" back. It's so much nicer than "Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite." Last night I had two sweet dreams.
In the first I invented a country (must get out a map and look). I think it was at the northern tip of the African continent, a colony of mostly French--and here's where I violate geography I'm sure--it was just across a channel from southern France. I was preparing to fly home and dreading the long flight (in an earlier part of the dream I was packing and my suitcase kept falling apart--I woke up anxious). Someone said, "Let's take the ferry to France for the day," and I was so excited, so joyous that I was going to France for a day. Where does this come from? My brother and sister-in-law are due back today from southern France; the long flight may be a hangover from my trip to Scotland. All I can figure, but I still had that wonderful feeling of joy when I woke up.
Fed the cat and snuck back to bed for just a bit--which turned out to be an hour and a half. It was a pleasant day, not hot like now, and I was in my kitchen, though I didn't recognize the room at all. Doors at either end were open, and old friends, men and women, kept drifting in and sitting at the long table where I was opening mail and semi-working. Now I can't tell you who they were--except for Bill and Sharon Benge and Sally Armstrong--but we were all interconnected through marriage, divorce, and friendship. And they all shared in some form of creative work. It was a lovely warm feeling to be so surrounded by comfortable friends with much in common, and I remember thinking I must blog about how nice this is. Of course then I woke up--and no, two new book projects hadn't landed on my desk. That too was a dream!
You can't help but wonder where dreams come from. I think they're subconscious manifestations of things that are on your mind, sometimes consciously, sometimes not. I dream about my parents often, and sometimes wake sure that my mother is in the next room (where her bedroom would be if I were in my childhood bedroom). Who knows? Maybe she's here in spirit. Some people who've played major roles in my life appear frequently, and others never appear--as though I have settled my business with them. I don't know what it all means, and I'm not sure dreams are guides for what we should do in daily life. Yet I do pay attention and wonder if there's some sort of message there.

The Great Love Affair of the American West

If I've done the math correctly, today is the 125th anniversary of the Battle of Little Bighorn, sometimes called Custer's Last Stand. Almost 20 years ago, I did a lot of research on the Custers, which finally resulted in the novel Libbie, now long out of print but available in used editions. Someday I hope to put it on Kindle and Smashwords. I didn't and still don't understand the military analysis of the battle--countless historians have dickered and written about it and theories abound--but I think I know enough to judge that Custer rushed in where angels fear to tread. And  he took a lot of good men with him, including his own younger brother and brother-in-law.
I was more interested in Libbie, the general's wife. I read her three books, the books of Lawrence Frost (her apologist or whatever), and some books about Custer, including one titled Custer Victorious about his service in the Civil War, when he was known for bold--and foolhardy--risks and harsh discipline to his soldiers. But I was writing about  his marriage and trying to tell the story from Libbie's point of view. It remains a puzzle to me. Shirley Leckie's excellent biography, Elizabeth Bacon Custer and the Making of a Myth, had not yet been pubilshed, but I've since read it and recommend it highly.
Libbie was obviously infatuated with "Autie," as she called him, but to my mind he would have been hard to live with. Knowing she was afraid of his big dogs, he'd encourage them to get on the bed with her; on wild rides across the prairie, he's spook her horse until it ran away  with her. He was almost obviously unfaithful as accounts of his trips east to testify to the Senate suggest, and she once wrote of going to an Indian reservation and seeing a blond, blue-eyed infant whose mother kept eying her oddly. Libbie, who was raised quietly in a typical 18th-century genteel fashion, defied her father to marry Autie and remained loyal to him through all this. No doubt there were some high moments of passion in their relationship, but I don't think I'd have stayed with a man whose constant hijinx got so out of hand. Is that a "liberated" 21st-century point of view? Was it that as an 18th-century wife she thought she had no alternative? I can't quite believe that, because her account of hearing the news that he was dead is one of the most poignant things I've ever read. She took her shawl from its peg on the wall and went to comfort the other wives, as was her duty as the general's wife. (He had not earned the rank of general but was field-promoted or breveted.) I think she really loved him, in spite of all.
And then there's the matter of her 38 years, give or take, as a widow, when she devoted herself to making a hero of Autie. One supposes she actually believed that he was--or maybe she had to believe that to justify herself and her decisions. Maybe she couldn't face the fact that he disobeyed orders and didn't wait for support but went rushing in. History, perhaps out of deference to Libbie, put off unmasking the hero for many years.
We'll never know, but it's a fascinating bit of history. And on this anniversary I think not of Autie, rushing off to glory, but of Libbie, waiting at the fort. Frederic Remington did a painting of the 7th Cavalry's departure which is almost ghostly, showing the troops marching off into clouds--prophetic? It will break your heart if you, like me, have a soft spot for Libbie.

Cats, dogs, and grandchildren

My cat is 19 years old. Last weekend, son Jamie who found the cat as a kitten and brought him home, was here and asked why his breathing was labored. I realized that I'd seen his sides really heaving and when he sits on my desk, I can hear a squeak as he breathes. Put my ear to his chest--scientific, no?--and heard rattling. A call to the vet resulted in a likely diagnosis of asthma or allergies but they should see him. Nothing so simple, although no pneumonia. He has a hernia in his diaphragm, so his intestines are all pushed up into his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. Solution is an expensive, difficult surgery, which we aren't doing for a 19-year-old cat. After all, he's the equivalent of 99 or so in our life span. The problem may be congenital but if so, how did he live such a long and happy life. I'm betting it happened recently, for who knows what reason? Something we'll never know.
My dog is also aging--12, but that's getting on for an Australian shepherd. Abused before I got him, he periodically develops new fears. These hot days I bring him in after lunch, so can nap in the cool. Suddenly, he's afraid to come in the house. Today was the worst. He looked at the door, looked at me, stared off into space. I left the door open and went back into the kitchen. He came in but when I went to close the door he beat me outside. I tried putting a treat just inside the door--he snatched it and went back outside. I left and forgot about it for a while. Finally when I tried again, after much coaxing and loving talk, he came hesitantly up the stairs and in. None of this seems to bother him at night, when he comes right in. I wonder if the heat is making him crazy.,
I've had Jacob the last three evenings--at least he has no serious illnesses and no fears. Two of the three days I've picked him up at school--and woken myself from a deep nap to do it. Today I was so sleepy that when I got him home, I went back to my nap while he,exhausted from playing at day-care, watched TV. But we have peaceable suppers and good companonship. This is all training for next year when I'll get him at 3:00 every day.
Oh, and then there was the major car repair. Nope, it hasn't been my most peaceful week nor one full of accomplishment. Hope everyone has a good weekend--stay inside and stay cool.