Back to Reality

We arrived home late this past Friday night, me weary from 22 consecutive hours of traveling and Shaun weary from a short flight from Portland that included such highlights as squeezing into the tiny airplane’s tiny lavatory with BOTH boys so Nels could go potty. Such a feat boggles the mind.

Upon our arrival, Shaun noticed the following:

a.) the street was freshly tarred
b.) our Honda was gone.

Fortunately, he noticed later in the weekend that the car was parked down the street. No ticket or anything. This may be due to the kindness of our neighbor, who was asked by The Powers That Be In Charge Of Removing Cars Which Stand In The Way Of Street Improvements what she knew about the car. She informed these Powers that we had been, and continued to be, out of town. Thanks, neighbor. We owe you one.

No kindly neighbor could rescue me, however, from today’s latest installment of “Willem Martin, Poop Explorer.” As I scrubbed Willem down in the bathtub, I cursed myself for not having cut his fingernails recently and reflected that four more days in Paris would have been just about right.

While I was gone, I was FAR too busy packing in the fun to actually post anything, so I will do a little retroactive blogging. My industrious sister has already done so, so feel free to check out her version, which I can guarantee will be far more concise. If, however, you prefer to be bludgeoned nigh unto death with details and anecdotes and sentences of patience-trying length, by all means, check back in here over the coming week.