Dear Daddy, I learned to crawl while you were at work today. Love, Boh

A couple nights ago, our good friend C. called us to say that he was coming to O-town for the weekend. The law finals sure to incarcerate him in his tiny Kingston apartment in just a few short weeks apparently are calling him to the bar early. Likely a couple bars, actually; bars that are likely in Hull. While just over a year ago we would have started the party right then and there with a quick trip to the store to buy both beer and clam chowder in bulk (don't ask), our response on Wednesday night was less than subdued. It was almost catatonic. "Really? That's great," we whispered, fearful that even the slightest increase in the volume of the spoken word on the ground floor of our house after 8:00 pm would re-awake the Babe upstairs, two rooms over, fanning the flames of another crying fit of fury that Adoring and Wonderful Husband just put out minutes earlier with the promise of a car at 16. A fast, red car at 16, one that will surely give Mommy ulcers in case there was any doubt she has them already. "You should really call us when you're in. Stop by for breakfast Sunday morning before you go back." And that was pretty much the end of it. These days we don't even pretend that we might make an appearance somewhere on a Saturday night, and certainly not an appearance together. As I've said before, Sunday afternoon is the new Saturday night. So C., in my mind I am speaking very loudly, and with much excitement, when I say this: "Sunday afternoon. Come see Boh and watch me make perogies. It'll be more fun than a night in Hull, I promise, mostly because you'll remember it, and I might even send you home with perogies."

The other thing we'll be doing on Sunday? BABY-PROOFING.