Big ol' quiet house

Kristen and Peanut (our latest RJ endearment) are in Richland for the night. They took poor hobbled Sara back to the land of organized homes, leaving me with Hank Bob Speckle Pants and the rest of Sara's birthday cake.

This has been an exhausting and stressful week. No one came away from it feeling terribly good about how they'd handled it. But what's important is that it's over and we all still adore each other and can't wait to start the next week together. My precious wife taught me to think that way. I'm such a better person for it.

Moving sucks. Nothing is where it's supposed to be. Being in a new house is like doing everything with the wrong hand. You're inefficient at best, and at worst a danger to yourself. My adventure tonight involved getting a 500-degree broiler pan out of the oven without having a freakin' clue as to the whereabouts of the potholders...

I will miss getting up with sweet Rosa Jane tomorrow morning. Weekend mornings belong to us, and they usually start before 6 a.m. We sneak outside then, and listen to the birds waking up. She cocks her head in the direction of every new chirp or coo, and smiles and smiles. This goes on until she gets bored and tries to eat ants. That's my signal to tiptoe back inside for a breakfast of rice cereal and squash, or something equally divine. Then we retire to a big sofa and she climbs all over it and me for the best hour of the day. At some point KB comes halfway down the stairs and spies on the craziness. RJ eventually notices her and breaks out in a trillion dollar smile. And then my private time is over, but my family time starts, and family time is the best.