What Matters

A. just took the children up to the ram pasture to cut cane poles from the bamboo growing there. He wanted to take them fishing and realized he left his fishing pole in Mr. Jason's boat last week. No worries, kids. We have plenty of fishing line and bamboo. Daddy can fix anything.

When A. comes home (or, more painfully, first wakes up in the morning), it isn't more than five minutes before Cubby is demanding Daddy Monster. Which means the children race hysterically around the house, screaming with laughter, while A. lumbers after them, moaning like a mummy and making ineffectual lunges for them. It's probably the most popular game in our house right now.

A. has a set of boxing gloves from when he took boxing lessons a few years ago. He gives one to Cubby and one to Charlie and they tag team him, boxing one-handed and landing blows with impunity while he yells in mock helplessness and falls to the floor.

The MiL was reading a book a little while ago entitled, Do Fathers Matter? What Science Is Telling Us About the Parent We've Overlooked, by Paul Raeburn. I didn't read the book, because I don't need the science to tell me what is obvious in my own house.

Do fathers matter? Unquestionably.

A Reputation To Live Up To

After dinner this evening, I remained in the kitchen to wash dishes and blanch green beans for freezing*. A. was refereeing the after-dinner revelry in the living room. Tonight's revelry seemed to be awfully scream-y, in a slightly hysterical way, but since there was a responsible adult present in the living room, I ignored the noise and carried on.

A. came in the kitchen after awhile and asked me if something was wrong with Charlie today.

"Not that I know of," I said. "Why?"

"He just keeps having fits. Over really irrational things, like a person sitting on a couch cushion."

"He's two," I said. "He has irrational fits all day. That's why they're called the Terrible Twos."

It's cute how innocent A. still is, isn't it?

* A paltry two quart bags. It's not going to sustain us through a long winter or anything, but I suppose it's better than nothing.

A.P.D.--The Sleeping In Edition

Charlie tried to convince me at 4:10 this morning that it was time to get up. I strongly disagreed (my internal response was something along the lines of, "HELL NO") and then spent the next hour getting him back to sleep*. As I was lying there in my bed, wide awake and waiting for his next escape attempt, I reflected on how drastically my notion of "sleeping in" has changed recently.

In college, sleeping in meant 10 p.m.

When I worked and got up at 6 a.m., sleeping in meant 9 a.m.

When I had my first kid, who slept until at least seven most mornings, sleeping in meant 8 a.m.

And now? Now if Charlie sleeps until 6 a.m., I feel as if I've won the lottery. And on the banner mornings when A. gets up with Charlie, I indulge myself by staying in bed until 7 a.m.

Oh, the luxury.

And now it's your turn, my lovelies. What time do you habitually wake up and what do you consider sleeping in?

* He did eventually go back to sleep around 5 a.m. And then woke up for the day at 6:10 a.m. Super.