Not this duck. Actually a rubber duck.

Said the three-year-old to the five-year-old: “Okay. We both want this duck. How we gonna solve this problem?”

I could cry tears of conflict-resolution-practicing joy, I could.

I have open in another window a page titled “37 Ways to Tie a Scarf.”

I own approximately two scarves. I could make 74 knots.

This is a revelation.

As I type this, Dane is chasing down a bug in our living room. (mosquito!) (he says it’s not a mosquito.) (please tell me it’s not yet mosquito season?)

This is how we split up bug-squashing duties. At our house, if Dane’s home, he squashes. And if he’s not, more than likely Owen will catch the creepy-crawly and put it in a jar.

You know it’s a good day when you come down the stairs after nursing the baby to sleep, and find a row of glass jars on the floor, one spider in each.

Some days? Some days I think I’m the bug in the jar, running in circles around the bottom: hey, I don’t seem to be getting anywhere here! But most days I know I’m really the other thing. Not the bug. Usually.