First peach of the season

My next band name, or at least what we'll call the guinea pig

James had astronomy on the mind this morning, and he wanted to talk to Peter about the "vegetable of lights."

With a little Q & A, Peter was able to translate--festival of lights--but he wasn't much forrarder as to what was meant.

James elucidated: "Roly-poly Alice."

Which translates, in case you didn't catch that, to aurora borealis.

The way we live now

Camptown Races as arranged for electronic keyboard has just played for the 247th... 248th... 249th time since I woke this morning, while James dances in a circle around the living room ad libbing worker lyrics (e.g., put the gravel right there, hammer, hammer, hammer!, workers eat oatmeal). Please... send... help...

Portrait of the artist as a very young man

The boys were drawing this morning while I did laundry.
Henry came into the back room to show me his picture of a bus.
"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to the driver, who was something of a cipher.
"James."
"And this?" pointing to the passenger, a much more vivid character who was grinning maniacally.
"James!"
We went into the green room to discuss it with James, the original.
"Oh no! James, what's wrong?" cried Henry.
James was lying on his side between the folds of the comforter, arms outstretched and back arched in an ecstasy of despair, moaning.
The paper he had been drawing on was cast aside and his only reply to Henry was a louder moan.
"James?" I asked. "What is it?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I ... don't ... know ... how ... to ... draw ... a ... hammer."

This morning in the treasure chest, before wrestling with his demons.

Mother's Day

I would prefer to be the sort of person who doesn't care a bit about Mother's Day, but the fact is I really like being feted by my family. I hope I never turn into the old woman stewing over the flowers no one sent me, but god only knows what I might come to.

At any rate, today I had no grounds for complaint, however unreasonable. I was surprised at breakfast with a perfect mix of presents: something the whole family stands to benefit by, something improving for me (it's both annoying and encouraging that Peter believes I can organize myself into writing a bestseller), and something purely indulgent. Henry and James and I dug up some raspberry starts to take to Mom, and Henry helped her plant them. And this afternoon...

...I got to lounge in bed reading an enthralling book...

...and then to make shepherd's pie for supper at a pottering pace.

Too many people I care about are spending their first Mother's Day motherless this year, and as I know from the infuriating lousiness of Father's Day, it needn't have been a holiday observed in one's particular family to hurt like hell. It might escape my nearest and dearest, with whom I am far too often tetchy, but I am thankful--only the word doesn't cover it--down to the grubby soles of my feet for my sleepless, tearful, mud-crusted, transforming, and surpassingly sweet experience of motherhood. And I am equally grateful for my own stubborn, moralizing, cranky (I come by my tetchiness honestly!), nutty, wise, and loving mom.

Geology field trip

Hunting for fossils at Sherwood Oaks park, inspired by his first celebrity hero, Dr. Scott.

More interested in chucking fossils than in hunting them, as of yet.

Overheard on the near west side

James, to Peter, as Peter was holding him wrapped up in a towel after his bath: "May I zip about?" I received this with so much enthusiasm the first time that it has already become a catchphrase with both boys.

James also now habitually runs naked from the bathroom after washing up and declares, "Here comes a fresh, clean guy!"

Henry, who has embraced science, to James: "How many atoms do you think are in a grain of salt?"
James: "Twelve."

Henry is also very interested in considering what objects of various sizes might look like to a flea. "This boot would be like a house to a flea!" "This house would be like a skyscraper to a flea!" "A skyscraper would be like a million hundred mountains to a flea!" Peter also enjoys this line of speculation, and he and Henry discuss with interest how many fleas, standing one on top of another, would be as tall as the tire on the neighbor's pick-up truck, and whether a flea's height, properly measured, should include its legs, and how it might feel to be the flea at the bottom of the stack.