On Sunday morning, Steve and I retreated from our parenting responsibilities for a while. I curled up with a book and the New York City Marathon. Steve plugged in the bills for the week into Quicken and then surfed through Andrew Sullivan.
Children? What children?
I could hear thumps from a distance part of the house, as the boys rough housed. There were shreaks of laughter, too, so I just let it go. Boys need to sit on another boy's head for a while, I thought. Well, rough housing usually leads to tears, as it did that Sunday morning.
A bandaid and a bowl of ice-cream made things better.
Apt. 11d 