Small Things

The best autumn sundae: Pumpkin Caramel

Today at the grocery store I discovered Dreyer's Limited Edition Pumpkin ice cream (Edy's for you East Coasters). I am always looking for a flavor my son will like, he's not a fan of chocolate, and he's never that thrilled by vanilla and strawberry. So when I saw this, I new my pumpkin-pie-loving boy would love it.

I was content with that prize, but as I was leaving the coffee isle, I spotted the Hershey syrup bottles, and they have a new caramel variety! The boy loves caramel! So I also picked up a can of whipped cream and left quite happy.

I guess you could say I'm a little soft on the boy this week. He had an expander appliance installed across his upper palate, which I have to crank open twice daily. The day it went in he was miserable. He absolutely could not swallow, which the orthodontist warned me would happen initially. He drooled and spit and slurped until he was slightly panicked and I was super annoyed, andI  told him he would just have to figure it out because he would obviously have to eat and drink, or else starve to death. Not a great parenting moment. I was completely worn down by his two younger sisters' antics in the dentist office by then, but I should've known better.

When we got home, I took his two crying sisters upstairs for naps, while the boy drooled into the bathroom sink, crying pathetically, "How can I even LIVE!? I can't even SWALLOW anything! I can't even LIVE!!!!!! Wahhhhhh!" My heart was breaking for him even as my eyes were rolling over the melodrama.

I sat him in front of cartoons for an hour or two to help him chill out and forget about it. He held his spit cup and filled it as though he had a mouth full of chew. Unfortunately, a sister came along and spilled it on the carpet, and when their father got home, he stepped in it in his socks. "AWWWWW! What the #@!*! is this?!"

"You really don't want to know. Trust me."

Anyway, I made all the kids pumpkin caramel sundeas after school today, and they were a hit. After dinner, my son jumped up to make a sundea for his Dad. Unfortunately, after they ate their sundeas and I went upstairs to fold laundry, all three kids apparently got the whipped cream out and tried to spray it in their mouths, releasing all the CO2, and making the can of cream useless. So Dad just had ice cream with caramel sauce.

It was still yummy!

When letting go of your baby is like pulling teeth

I don't like going to the dentist, and my avoidance of them probably makes my visits much worse than they would be if I went regularly. I've been taking my kids every six months like clockwork, though. Today, my kids dental work made me even more anxious than my own. And I wasn't even there.

Last week, at his regular cleaning, the dentist decided Jimmy's adult teeth weren't coming in evenly and so he needed two baby teeth extracted, to put in spacers. Jimmy was totally cool with that. No fear. No questions. After that appointment, I even asked him if he understood what "extraction" meant. He knew. No problem.

So today was the day, and miraculously my husband had the day off work. I was glad to be able to leave the girls with him so I could go and sit with Jimmy for his . . . gulp . . . extractions.

But my husband said he'd go instead. I said no, no, no, I need to be with him. Surely he'll want me to be there, I'm his mom.

My husband rolled his eyes, and reminded me I have issues with dental work. True, but this is my baby. It might be painful for me, but I still want to be there.

Like when my 5-week-old baby girl needed a spinal tap, and they had to squish her in a ball and try three times to get a good draw and she screamed the whole time, but I stood there talking soothingly to her, trying to touch her when I could, while tears poured down my face and I tried not to shake. A hospital corpsman put a hand on my back and gently suggested I could wait in the hall, and I tried not to bare my teeth at her. I will NOT leave my babies when there are needles, or dental instruments, involved.

But my baby boy is almost eight, and his Dad would like a chance to be there for him. Especially since he's been deployed for so much of the kids experiences. Jimmy loves spending time with his Dad.

I told my husband, we'll let Jimmy choose. Then I grinned and joked, I'm sure he'll pick me, especially if I sniffle and tell him I'll cry if he doesn't pick me.

So when Jimmy came home from school, I explained it was up to him, he could choose one of us to go with him. He asked, why can't everyone go? I explained one of us had to stay with the girls.

Then my husband says, "If you go with me, I'll drive you in the Z." I couldn't believe the shameless bribery! I gasped and looked at him, open-mouthed. He looked at me with wide-eyed pseudo innocence. The Z is my husband's 2-seater sporty non-family car, and Jimmy is over-the-moon when he is occassionally allowed to ride in it. I saw his eyes light up.

I tried, "But you might feel better knowing I'm there with you, just think who you want to . . . "

My husband interupted with, "C'mon, how old are you, you don't really need your mommy there, do you?"

I gasped again! He's such a rat!

Jimmy smiled at me and said, "Yeah, I want Dad." I was disappointed, because I was so worried about him getting a sedative, and worried about complications, and began to feel extremely anxious about it all. And admitted to myself (though NEVER to my husband) that maybe it really was better if I weren't there.

After it was over, the girls and I met the boys at Jamba Juice, and I saw Jimmy come out drinking a smoothie. I walked over to hug him, and saw a dark red smear under his bottom lip. Immediately concerned that it was blood, or bruising (what did they do to my baby?!), I looked closer and realized it was just raspberry smoothie. He kept sucking in his bottom lip and rubbing his teeth over it.

I asked how it was, he just said flatly,"Fine." I looked at my husband, and he shrugged. As we all walked to some benches, I noticed Jimmy was walking slowly, and kind of unbalanced. He sat and drank his smoothie completely blank-faced. His eyes were empty, and it was scaring me.

Then my husband asked if I wanted to see the teeth. He shook a little box at me. Jimmy looked up at the box, expressionless. "They're huge," added my husband as I opened it.

They were enormous, pointy, vampire-y looking things, with the roots on them, and oooohhhhh, I felt woozy then. I closed the box and handed it back.

I just sat back and put my arm around Jimmy. Kissed his head. Yeah, it was probably better I didn't go.

Jimmy was mostly back to normal a couple of hours later, and STARVING, since he had to fast before his appointment. And now he's sleeping, hoping the tooth fairy leaves him more then usual for these particular teeth. She sure as heck better!

Fortunately, I happen to know she's a big softie.

 

Me and my diaper bag: Meant To Be

I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long.
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.

I've been looking around at diaper bags ever since the birth of my first child almost 8 years ago. The first one I used was pretty good, until the strap broke. When I had a second baby to carry around as well, and hands-free convenience was even more necessary, I bought a Skip Hop Duo in Cherry Red, and it was the perfect relationship.

Convenient, organized, comfortable. Slung across my body easily, my cell phone easy to grab with two fingers even while chasing a toddler, burping an infant, even before the voice mail picked up! It took everything I threw at it--wet diapers, crumbling crackers, leaking sunblock, fragile sunglasses, stockpiled restaurant crayons, folders of immunization cards and school records, all while keeping my wallet and ipod clean, dry, and in easy reach. It even has a mesh pocket that will hold a Starbucks grande cappucino (just don't forget to take it out before you sling the bag into the passenger seat next to you.)

With all this accomodation and flexibility, why would I want anything else? My faithful and durable red bag is getting shabby. I've washed it so many times I can see daylight peeking through the bottom seams when I look deep down inside for forgotten hotwheels or polly pockets. I'll admit, from time to time, I admire the sleek, trendy, younger models on other women's arms. I begin to fantasize that maybe there is another bag out there that is also perfect for me, one with more leather, and less canvas. Shiny metal rings and clasps instead of plastic drawsting toggles and alligator clips.

I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean.
But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine.

So I searched all my usual stomping grounds, hoping to meet up with something different. I even tried online shopping. Looking for something classic and versatile, that will hold everything, clean easily, and keep my phone, keys, and wallet handy.

So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.
I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."
And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew..."

.And I did find the perfect bag. The Skip Hop Duo in Basic Black

 

"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.

And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."

My parents are celebrating 40 years of marriage!

I am celebrating it, too. Today marks forty years since they walked down the aisle at St. Ann's church, and I wonder how they pictured the life ahead of them on that day.

I wish I had their wedding picture to post, but I don't. I can picture it perfectly, the one that sat on my grandmother's living room shelf my whole life. Mom in her pillbox hat, bangs, long straightened hair falling over her shoulders. (She told me she had to fight my grandmother over having her hair down.) My Dad in his white tuxedo with the black lapel. Mom carried daisies. (It was 1970.)

Dad had recently been discharged from the Marines after two tours in Vietnam. Mom had waited for him, working office jobs while she tracked his letters on a map. It sounded very romantic to me as a kid. Once I had been through separation from my future husband, I realized it was much harder and rarer than I realized to keep faith in a love that is really just a memory studded with occassional letters.

I once asked my Dad how he knew that he wanted to marry my mom. He said that there came a time that he would drive her home at the end of a date, and it was too hard to say goodbye.

My mother claims that she knew she wanted to marry my Dad the day she met him. She was friends with his sister, who hoped to introduce them. He was home from boot camp and went to pick up his sister at my mom's house. He walked into my grandmother's kitchen, he asked her out, and after he left, my mother turned to her own sister and said she thought he was the man she would marry.

It goes without saying that 40th wedding anniversaries are pretty rare. I would say that they are lucky, but I've been married for 13 years myself, and I know that dedication and patience have as much, if not more, to do with it as luck.

I remember one Thanksgiving eve my Mom sent my Dad out to get a fresh turkey. He came back with one that he said was labeled fresh, Mom said it was frozen solid, and an exasperating circular argument ensued. Dad went back to the store. Muttering. But he was over it by the time Mom needed him to peel the turnips.

I remember another dinner, when I was much, much younger. Dad and my sisters and I were all at the table ready to eat, and Mom turned toward us from the stove, with a large casserole in her hands. It slipped and crashed to floor, shattering all over. Dad got up from the table and just put his arms around Mom and hugged her. I remember being completely stunned, because if my sisters or I had dropped that casserole, I didn't think we'd have been hugged.

They've set a solid example for me, and for all of my family, I have no doubt. Ron and Ruth, they just go together. I can't imagine one without the other. Their marriage has been the foundation for all my mine and my sisters' lives. They made a home where we had dinner around the table every night, our holidays were full of traditions, and our family had fun together. Board games, card games, charades--even as teenagers our best friends would play Balderdash with the Pelletiers.

I remember they could fight, but I don't really remember what they ever fight about. I do remember sitting in the backseat of our Buick Regal and seeing them holding hands on the frontseat armrest.

For years, my Dad has always gone to bed first, and he always kisses her goodnight first. Sometimes, she'll pull back and say, "Don't kiss me! I'll be there in a minute!" For some reason, I always find that funny, the way she snaps "Don't kiss me!"

For a long time now, they have a standing Friday night date, dinner and a movie. Now that I am deep in the child-raising years, I think of them on Friday nights and I'm so jealous. But I know that they did their time, they paid their dues. They waited many years to have their Friday nights to themselves.

I hope to get there myself one day!

Survey Sunday: Do you have a Sunday night routine?

I enjoy a Sunday, I think I always have. It's so totally different from the structured demands of a weekday, when I am shuttling kids and we almost never see my husband. It's also completely different from the wide-open potential of a Saturday, the one stretch of day that I feel compelled to fill with outdoor activity (maybe that's a San Diego thing?) and then stay up late watching a movie with Jamie.

But Sunday lends itself more to routine, especially for people who go to church regularly. But even if you don't, it is still a day to wind down from the weekend, and prepare for the week. That makes me think of the Seinfeld episode when Elaine is trapped on the wrong side of town due to a parade and has to get home to watch 60 Minutes and unwind. And that makes me remember the ticking stopwatch, and Mike Wallace, and my Dad nodding off on the sofa after Sunday dinner, and me dreading all the weekend homework I'd procrastinated.

See, even as a kid, I had a Sunday routine. In college, I had a Chi Omega chapter meeting every Sunday night. When my husband and I first married, we'd cook breakfast and read the Sunday paper for hours. Then there were the beer-and-laundry Sundays, when my husband and his buddy Martin would brew beer while I shuttled 8 loads of laundry down to the laundromat on the corner (at 1st and Orange in Coronado, facing the Ferry Landing, possibly the most scenic laundromat in the world), then we'd all have dinner, often ribs and corn on the cob.

For the last few years, on Sunday nights I put the kids to bed early and spend the evening doing laundry and watching Desperate Housewives and then Brothers and Sisters. I didn't ever plan on watching those shows, in fact, I expressly intended NOT to watch those shows. But they follow Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and they are gooood soaps, and there is PLENTY of laundry to fold . . . so I eventually got hooked.

Tonight I am off my routine. My husband and I decided to call the sitter and then go out to dinner, just the two of us. Very nice. We went to a new Pho place and had a hot pot of spicy broth and cooked our dinner at the table. Interesting. We liked it, and we liked doing something we could never do with our kids. And it was very healthy. So then we went to the Cheesecake Factory for dessert.

Meanwhile, my laundry is piling up and I have shows backed up on my DVR.

Do you have a Sunday routine that you count on? Do you need 60 Minutes to unwind? Comment below and let me know how you spend your Sundays!

April is Month of the Military Child

It's nice that my kids are recognized by the First Lady. But I wonder, what are they being recognized for? For being brave? For doing without their parents? For some, seeing their parents wounded or worse in service of our country?

My kids go long periods without their Dad when he is deployed. They are brave about the the dangers of his job, but then they are young, and a bit sheltered. And many kids grow up missing a parent, not just military kids.

I think the main difference that being military kids makes for my kids, is that they have a clear understanding of courage. They know there are bad guys in the world, and that the only way to make the world safe(er) and just is for brave people to step up.

They will not take freedom for granted. They know Dad misses their birthdays and summer vacations and many family dinners because he volunteers to defend democracy and America. That he helps catch bad guys on the other side of the world.

My kids have also lived in many parts of the country, visited many national parks and monuments on our cross country moves, and understand that the world is big. That communities vary widely. That there are many languages and skin colors and foods and cultures.

Do they need our governments' help? They already have health care, and housing, covered. What more can Uncle Sam do for them?

Jill Biden and Michelle Obama mention our communities, and that's exactly what our kids (and military spouses) need most. My friends and neighbors who babysit, or share a meal, or listen to you vent.Who bring in the garbage cans, or mow the lawn, or drive your kid to school. Help their at-home parent be a better parent, a less-stressed parent. I always say, when it comes to helping kids, help the mom to help the kid.

And show their gratitude for our troops. I can't tell you how that makes my kids beam!

When my husband was returning form his first deployment, just after September 11th, I went to Publix to get a rack of lamb for his homecoming meal. The butcher happened to see me looking at lamb, offered his help, and I told him what I was buying and why. He said he'd go pick a cut himself. He came back with the most beautiful rack of lamb he'd just trimmed for me, and told me to thank my husband for his service. I cried over the meat case.

I had no kids yet, so I suppose that's unrelated to military children. But that's how meaningful saying thanks is to military familes. I think it means even more to us than to our servicemembers. Of course they appreciate it. But I know my husband's response is "well, it's my job." Heroes usually don't feel like heroes. They shrug and squirm a bit under praise.

But their kids! For a kid to hear someone else thank their Dad. To see other's respect and appreciate their parent for the job he does when he is missing those birthdays and holidays and weekday dinners . . . they are proud. And pride will get you through a lot of deployment.

I'm proud of my military children.

 

Easter and Earthquakes

I love Easter. I love Christmas, too, but there is so much less production and expectation at Easter, that decorating and entertaining is much more stress-free. The Christmas story is lovely, about the birth of the baby Jesus, Mary, the manger, the star. But the Passion and the Resurrection are really the meat of what being Christian is, and I can use every reminder I can get that salvation and forgiveness are mine for the asking.

(I even have forgiveness for the family slurping a frappacino and crunching spicy potato chips behind me during mass--but are you really going up to receive the Host with jalapeno breath?)

We have a decent-sized bunny collection going, it grows a little every year. At first, as the grandmothers would send a couple of bunnies each Easter, I began to think, seriously, what do they expect us to do with more bunnies? Then I realized, they are a great way to decorate for spring, and isn't that what bunnies are supposed to do? Multiply? That's the whole they reason they are a symbol of spring and fertility. So I take them out each March, and then pack them away again after the Easter season.

(Which lasts 50 days, my friends, so when you see the egg wreath still on my door, it's not because I'm too lazy to take it down. Ok, not only because I'm lazy. But also because it's officially ok to leave it up until May, when I bring out my red, white, and blue stars wreath in preparation for Memorial Day, Flag Day, and 4th of July.)

So this Sunday, we hosted our 10th Annual Easter Ham and Lamb. We've been hosting Easter for friends, and occassionally visiting family, ever since our first military move to the West coast, and we always enjoy it.

It was just after our first guests arrived that the earthquake struck. "Struck" sounds very dramatic, and really, the shaking wasn't that bad, just rattled the house and made the trees and bushes sway back and forth. Though it did seem to go on for several minutes, which was unusual and a little exciting. We went on with the kids' egg hunt, and then our dinner. While we were eating I heard my cell phone ring, but I knew I wouldn't be able to extricate my self from the table in time to get it. I suspected it was my mother, because she has been fascinated by earthquakes since she felt a small one when she visited us here years ago. I wondered aloud if she had an iphone app for the usgs earthquake alerts. A minute later, my husband's cell phone rang, I figured I'd better get it so my parents wouldn't worry.

Good thing I did.

Back in Georgia, my parents were hosting their own Easter dinner, with my sister and my nephew, and my other sister and her husband. My younger sister just visited us here last week, and she was sharing her stories about San Diego, and wishing she'd had a chance to feel a little earthquake. They teased my Mom about all the email updates she receives about every little earthquake. She insisted it wasn't that many, not since she changed her settings so she only is alerted for 3.5 or above. While playing Scat (a card game) after dinner, my nephew was the first eliminated and went to the computer. He quickly called to the others that there'd been a seven-point-something quake in Southern California.

"What!?" shouted my Mom, jumping up from the table. Everyone tried to calm her, assuring her that it was probably fine. Mom rushed to her computer, looking over my nephew's shoulder as he clicked on different headlines and links. She told me later that it was all she could do to not physically throw him out of her chair so she could start checking for herself. Finally my sister suggested my nephew move, and Mom got more worried when she saw the giant red box over the Mexico/California border. That's when they started calling us, and worrying more when we didn't answer the home phone (the ringer is off) or my cell.

When I answered my husband's phone, it was my Dad, and he put me on speaker phone. I think they were all on the edge of their seats. I had to step outside so I could hear them, and reassure them that we were alright, that there was no damage here. He told me that I should post something on Facebook, and I distractedly said "OK" (I was distracted because all three of my kids had snuck out after me and were running down the street as though their very freedom was at stake).

"No, really, you should, Kristi, because people will be worried," added my older sister.

I assured them I would, then I chased down and caught the two-year-old, and went back inside. I wasn't about to chase the older ones, and we live in a small gated neighborhood anyway.  They'd come back when they realized that freedom, when you're under 8, is overrated.

So I updated my Facebook status, and went back to dessert. Soon the doorbell rang. "Who is it?" shouted my husband.

"US!" called out my son and daughter.

We let them back in. Maybe they finally realized it wasn't that smart to run away from a house full of Easter candy.

How to know when it's time to wash the car

My 4-year-old daughter told me, "Mom, we need to park in the garage, because the birds are having a poop-party on the car!"

When I picked up my first-grader from school yesterday, he said, "You know how I recognize our car? It's the one that looks like a reverse dalmation--instead of white with black spots, it's black with white spots."

It really is time to drive through the car wash. And then steal my husband's side of the driveway, the one that ISN'T under the tree of avian party-ing poopers.

(What's that you say, Dad? Clean out the two-car garage so we can actually park at least one car there? Hmm, that sounds a little extreme to me.)

Top 5 Signs Autumn is Coming

Here in Southern California, we can't rely on the usual signs that summer is over and that fall is on the way. Our school district is year-round, so for my kids, back-to-school time was in the middle of July. And come September, there is no real turning of leaves. I've noticed the one deciduous tree over my driveway sheds it's leave continuously, with a major mess dropping in early summer, not autumn.

But I love autumn, it's the best time of year, so I do look forward to the few clear signs that it's almost here.

1. The heat breaks, and I can turn off the air conditioning. August can be brutally hot. While the weather is mild year-round here, if we are going to have a heat wave, it happens in august. We live a good 25 minutes from the beach, so we have fewer breezes, no marine layer, and long, long days of unadulterated clear blue skies. Every. Single. Day. No clouds, no rain, no merciful low-pressure fronts bringing thunder storms. What I wouldn't give for a good afternoon thunder-shower.

2. I stock up on cake mix for birthdays. My son's birthday is in October, and my oldest daughter's is in September. Just this week I made cupcakes for her preschool class, a cake for our family after her birthday dinner, and I have one more to make for her actual party on Friday. This is a ridiculous amount of cake in one week. But I love making homemade (read: messy) birthday cakes, and this year, I successfully made all-natural pink frosting tinted with beet juice. I've come a long way since the Red-Dye Incident of 2004.

3. Pumpkin Spice Latte returns to Starbucks. Need I say more?

4. The corn maze is gettin' high. I always drive a convoluted back road route to get to the highway, because the fast-connecting newish highway has a mind-boggling toll of $2.50. I refuse to pay it, unless I am seriously running late for an appointment. I like the back way, because the valley is filled with heady aromas of sage and eucalyptus, and sometimes, just past the hand-lettered sign that reads "Andalusion Stallion at Stud," we see horses out for a walk past the golf course. I recently drove my friend to the Navy hospital when she was in serious labor, and on autopilot I passed the connector and headed down the backroads. I was afraid she was going to get upset, but she was so busy with contractions and practically smacking out the windows of her Volvo with her hand that she didn't notice or say anything. So, along this back route is a christmas tree farm/pumpkin patch that is vacant all summer, but when we can see the pumpkins growing and the corn maze getting high, we know fall is just around the corner. My kids get excited when the hay bales appear and lights are strung, they happily remind me that it's almost pumpkin season.

5. The new fall season of television. I'm not that excited about it this year, because I don't watch many prime time shows. I'm still waiting for Big Love, and Biggest Loser, and the new American Idol. I feel a little guilty about it, but I do enjoy Desperate Housewives. Normally, my husband and I love all the Law and Orders, but I can't watch when he's deployed because it'll make me think too much about violent crime and then I'll never get any sleep. I am really enjoying Jay Leno at 10, it's just what I need as I get ready for bed, a little amusing and timely monologue that I don't have to sit through the local news to get to.

I do miss the traditional shopping for school supplies and sweaters and corduroys, and the crunching  fall leaves waiting to be raked into big piles for kids to jump in. I am an East Coaster at heart. But I picked up a couple of short corduroy skirts at Old Navy, which coordinate nicely with my brown flip flops. And Trader Joe's has some nice looking chrysanthemums. This fall also brings another Homecoming, when my husband's carrier returns home to San Diego next month. It's going to be a great autumn.

The first day of catechism

My first grade son started catechism classes yesterday, beginning to prepare for his first communion in two years.  He seemed to have a good time, when he walked in several kids he'd met at vacation bible school this summer called out called out his name, and they all started acting silly together.

All the parents gathered outside for a meeting with the director of religious education at our parish. The children's ministry building is new this year for our parish, it had previously been a preschool, but our church took it over and renovated it so our kids now have space for classes and activities. Sorely needed. Several years ago I volunteered to teach a 5th grade catechism class, and we met in what is now a storage closet.

So behind this new building is a big play area, with shade, and most importantly, fences. While the director addressed all the parents, our couple dozen preschoolers, too young for catechism, played 40 feet away on the playground, close enough to watch but far enough to not interrupt grownup conversation. Surrounded by fences, and supervised by a couple of confirmation students.

The director told us he'll be leading a bible study for parents here in the back yard of the ministry building during all classes, and plans for us all to bring our young ones to play just as they did yesterday. I know he's always led those bible studies before, but I never considered going because they were always crowded into some corner of the church, and I knew my two girls would not be able to sit and color or play quietly indoors like that.

But now! My girls were so happy playing, and I looked around at all the moms, and seriously, I was afraid I might start crying. I am so looking forward to Thursday evenings now. To have all of my kids happily engaged, while I get to be in basically the best Book club ever with other parents struggling with the same lifestyle as mine . . . what a blessing! What a bonus to bringing my kid to catechism!

Last night, I couldn't get Jimmy to tell me anything about what they talked about in his class. I tried, but he said he didn't really want to talk about it. I suspect he was still processing the new classroom, the new teacher, the kids, and the workbook. Maybe he is at a loss as to how to sum up the lesson for the day. (Also, he lost a tooth right at bedtime, and may have been preoccupied with thoughts of the tooth fairy coming.)

But I think he'll be happy to return next Thursday. I know I will be.