Big Daddy made it safely home from his conference. Hip Ray!
He's taken a weeks holiday, and we've stayed low, struck with holiday sloth, and a little bit of virus. Lots of big plans have been sidelined in favour of long baths and trashy memoirs and couch-napping. Ivy is going through what I believe is called a challenging phase.
It's taking some management.
Over the last few days she's tried to talk her way out of bed with:
a) Insisting 'But I had a nightmare!' (moments after the door is shut)
b) Throwing herself onto the floor and insisting she can't get up.
c) Biting herself vigorously on the arm and then weeping in surprised indignation.
Teddy is not so much a small boy as a child-sized mound of snot in a Wondersuit. He's got a streaming, gummy-eyed, sneezy, coughing bastard of a cold, and all he can say, over and over, is 'Mummy Bear' in a particular rising inflection that is both warming my heart and burning a hole in my brain.
It's been colder than the heart of a politician around here. Rugged up almost beyond his capacity to wal and clutching his 'babies', Ted ventured out into the backyard long enough to accept a gift of home-made lemon curd from Helen next door.
Keith's been doing some work on phase 2 of his bookshelf project.
But mainly, there seems to have been a lot of this.