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Taylor and I were admiring the changing symmetry of the pattern that the whisk etched into the pancake batter when suddenly the bowl slipped, overturned, and poured its goo into the opened silverware drawer below the counter. Now, I know that I should close the silverware drawer when pouring milk into a glass on the counter above the drawer lest spilled milk flow from the counter into the drawer. Who knew that this applied to pancake batter too?

Aside from that minor mishap at breakfast Saturday morning, life in the household for the three of us has proceeded along its daily path propelled by the everlasting starts and stops that move a family with kids from daylight to blessed bedtime:

cook-eat-clean
"whose milk is this?"
drive-drop-pick up
cook-eat-clean
snack-clean
"if you're not gonna drink it all, don't pour so much"
drive-drop-pickup
snack-solicit cleaning help
"rinse your glass, dammit"
drive-drop-pick up
"they'll rerun it when you're old enough to stay up to watch it"
cook-eat-clean
"for the last time, get in bed" (repeat twelve times)
why do they know more about schedules of reinforcement than I do?
"yeah, me too you -- nice try, but lights out now!"

Clothing and bedding was laundered, dishes were washed, teasing was tempered, a cake was baked, meals were prepared and consumed (pizza was scratched in favor of fried chicken), videos were enjoyed (way too much Disney this weekend), books were read (a Harry Potter tale for Taylor), Marvin the cat was fed (Taylor again), a web page was designed (Owen), and a few personal injury pleadings (he hit me/he touched me first) were arbitrated with the wisdom of Solon (yers trooly) when the wisdom of a pro wrestling referee would not suffice.

The toilet seat remained mostly up, bedtimes have been almost always met (within thirty minutes), we have arrived punctually at all appointments, summer schools, practices and lessons, we almost always dressed before leaving the house or at least the yard, and without qualification, we have enjoyed ourselves and each other.

And today, dear diary, the little beastlings are with their grandmother at a reunion at a family farmstead (Ruth's place) in southern Kansas. I have enjoyed the time here and in grading student papers. After a few days of attending alone to the kids, some continuous attention to anything is welcome.

There are two phone calls of note to report, other than those from telemarketers and from the kids' friends. My mom and dad called Friday evening to report their return from Prague and Budapest. They arrived home late Thursday evening and spent Friday trying to overcome their jet lag. Mom has already set to work planning the next two trips (Israel and China), which she claims unironically will be her last before resigning from foreign travel. The last time she planned a trip to Israel, a Bush was president, and there was a war. Beware.

The second call was an outgoing call from the boys and me on Saturday night to the mom at her motel in Bangor. Ever the sophisticate, Taylor (who has never flown, but has the patter down) asked, "How was your flight?" by way of hello.

Maine it is, apparently, for Josh.

And it's now 7:20 and the beastlings are back from the wilderness, so it's time for welcomes and tick checks.

Reading:
Elegy for Iris, John Bayley

Watched (Friday night):
The Year of Living Dangerously. Linda Hunt's performance was stunning, Mel Gibson was skinny.