Well, I'll be ding-dong-danged!

Sunday morning, driving down Penn Ave., my car got hit with a stray foul ball from a pick-up baseball game going on at the middle school’s playground. I heard the ball rustling through the tree leaves and KNEW it was going to hit me and did not know what to do. It hit my windshield, fortunately not cracking it, and then bounced and left a big dent in the top of my car. Even more fortunately we were not rear-ended by all the speed demons racing to their scheduled brain surgeries when I hit my flashers and pulled over to assess the damage. We were all ok, if a bit shaken up. Well, I was sort of hysterical. Simon, when asked if he was ok, replied solemnly, “We’re ok Mom. A little shocked but we’re fine.” (Did I really give birth to that boy? If I hadn’t been there for the actual event, I am not sure I’d believe it myself.)

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Jude used a red marker the other day to draw Dalmatian spots all over his legs and feet. I did explain to him that Dalmatians are black and white, but he seemed pleased with his artistic license.

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So yesterday a coworker says to me, When are you due?
I say, October 8.
Pat: Oh, only four weeks...Are you having twins?
May the good Lord strike dead with lightning bolts from heaven any woman who has never given birth yet thinks it her bounden duty to open her mouth and express her opinion about someone else's pregnancy.

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Dan’s friend gave us a book about Noah's ark that Si read last night (no drowning bodies or anything – enough of that in the news). But Si finished it (he wanted to read it to me) and then asked me, "Mama? God's a good guy, right?" So sure, yeah, I say, "Most people believe he is." As I do not wish to get into theological discussions at bedtime – or really any time at this point. He looks at me and asks, "Well, why would a good guy do a bad thing like the flood?"

Oh, my Simon guy, the question of the ages, and you're only four. God help us when you are sixteen. And how I wish I knew the answer, my sweet little one.

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I could not get my butt out of bed this morning. When I finally did, at 9, the boys were upstairs playing but Mimi was in the bathroom sink, stark nekkid, with the water running, an entire pad of Post-it notes was dismantled and scattered like blue snow around the second floor, and Dan's poker money which he keeps in a cup on his dresser had almost entirely been deposited into their respective piggy banks. I suppose it could have been much worse.

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Jude reading Thomas:
“Thomas! Peep, peep, Thomas! People get in, quickly, quickly! Poop Poop! No, no! Peep, peep! Thomas say Peep peep! Not poop, poop!”
Yes, God forbid we mistake the Poop poop for the Peep peep!

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I’m not reading much of anything other than the newspaper right now, and contemplating registering us to host a family from down South that needs housing. Am I insane? I know I have a new baby coming in four weeks, but these people are in dire need. And we have the room. Only one bathroom, but otherwise plenty of room.