I recognize that TECHNICALLY summer just started a few days ago and that all this warm weather I’ve been calling summer was REALLY spring and what-not, but apparently southern California didn’t get the memo that summer is just beginning.  I know →MORE...

When I drop her in the bed, she whimpers, fusses, cries.  NOOOO!, she exclaims.  She twists onto her belly in protest, pushes me away.  Sweetheart, I coo.  It’s okay.  We’re just lying down.  NO SLEEPING ALLOWED!, I tell her. She giggles.  →MORE...

...he will never be under-sexed again.  Oh my.

We’ve been filling our summer with hikes in the local canyons, waiting until we cannot see a single person, then whooping at the top of our lungs.  It feels powerful.  And we’ve been filling our summer with chalk drawings scattered across →MORE...

Whenever Donald wants to get any yardwork done that isn’t too dangerous (like taking down an overgrown shrub), he straps Charlotte on his back.  He thinks it’s practical.  I think it’s sweet.  She thinks it’s boring.