Sorry for the delay between posts, folks.  Last week was a very long week, and yesterday was another long day.  Didn’t someone once say that weekends are supposed to be restful?  (Liars!)  I was too incoherent last night to string anything together.  A few things from last’s very long week (both summary and cause):

The new roof is finished!  Now I only need to get the interior drywall repairs done.  However, I am counting this project as ¾ complete.  Hopefully the drywall people won’t be showing up so damn early as the roof people.

My Roomba vacuum is on backorder! D’oh!

Friday, Keen and I celebrated the anniversary of our first date, 16 years ago.  My mind seems caught on the “16” part.  Can it really have been so long ago?  Wow.  Sure doesn’t feel like it.  Must be love a-working.  (There’s a surreal quality that occurs when you start thinking about lengths of time that have passed, you know?  Thinking about 16 years is almost as strange as those moments right after we brought Chance home from the hospital – when I would catch myself thinking, “How did this little person get into my kitchen?”)  Anyway, here’s to you babe!  I love ya!

And yesterday… yesterday we took Chance to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.  So far, he has been fascinated with fish tanks.  So we went to the largest one around.  He loved it, of course, leaning against the glass staring at fish bigger than him (he could have been bait!).  This is the fun part, truly.  The “getting to see things through their eyes” part.  I’m getting excited about going back to all the old pastimes, amusement parks, plays and musicals, the beach, horseback riding.  I better get my ass back in shape, though.  I’ll need to be able to keep up (I already know horseback riding is gonna be tough). 

                  – wg

“Children hallow small things. A child is a priest of the ordinary, fulfilling a sacred office that absolutely no one else can fill. The simplest gesture, the ephemeral movement, the commonest object all become precious beyond words when touched, noticed, lived by one’s own dear child.” — Mike Mason, The Mystery of Children (Colorado Springs: Waterbrook Press, 2001), p. 27