ALL CAPS

Today is warm again.  Blue ceiling of sky with clouds impishly scattered here and there, the kind of sky you might play badminton beneath.  Or croquet.  If the temperature was above 50 degrees.  Or you had grass instead of snow.  And no children.  And five or six chaise lounges scattered over your veranda.  Upon which cucumber sandwiches and iced tea were being served.  Presently.  And someone wearing a waistcoat said something to someone wearing a diamond brooch.  Etcetera.

Thisbe and her friend E had an afternoon tea party yesterday.  Thisbe insisted on candlelight and flowers.  There were also goldfish.  After tea was served the ladies fell into their usual quibbling so I told them I'd be listening from the kitchen and I would just be SO SHOCKED if I heard kind things passing between them.  There's nothing two first born children like better than compliments from an authority figure.  They like it better, it seems, then actually playing with one another.  For the next half hour I just heard loud voices from the other room saying things like, "WOULD YOU LIKE TO READ THIS BOOK WITH ME?" "OH, YOU CAN HAVE THAT FIRST" "THANK YOU SO MUCH THISBE" "YOU CAN BE ARIEL" "NO YOU CAN BE ARIEL"  Every five minutes either Thisbe or E would come into the kitchen and I would have to feign large amounts of shock at the manners being displayed.  It was a little bit like listening to a very, very bad skit for college freshman on the dangers of drinking or sleeping around. "AFTER THREE BEERS I FEEL SO DIZZY" "WHY DON'T YOU LET ME DRIVE!" "I HAVE A CONDOM." GREAT!  LET'S PRACTICE SAFE SEX."

Today you got to spend some time with Grandma Gail in the morning while I worked on page proofs for a book at Blue Monday.  After your second nap (the joy of 45 minutes!) we walked up to St. Olaf and I said things to you in all caps to keep you from falling asleep in the Ergo. "LOOK AT THE TREES.  MATTEUS.  ARE YOU AWAKE?  WAKE UP.  WAKE UP."

Now I'm in bed, laptop on my lap, opting for caffeine and a gooey butter cookie and blip-writing rather than taking the nap that my body would prefer.  It's been 45 minutes since you closed your eyes and I hear a cooing coming from your room.  You're testing the quieter registers of your voice, craning your neck to watch those sound slide through the bars of your crib.