Mother's Day. And Easter. And stuff.

I have been in a witless fog of diapers and laundry. It is not funny or exciting, but this week marked some developmental leap from nazgul infant to gurgling baby, so I'm beginning to regain my bearings. But not my pants.

Easter! There were things.

We tie-dyed shirts under Mike's beer tent, and ate a "flat ham", which was the greatest thing EVER - even though it looked like it had been run over by a truck. Family bunched in, drank bottles of wine and home brewed beer, the baby was passed around, and the kids ran like a herd of chickens.

Weeks in between! There were other things.

Someone started screaming outside. I was bobbing the baby on my shoulder and looking out the window while calling the police. "There is a crazy shirtless guy yelling at traffic across the street. He says all the cars are Satan. Local guy. Dark pants. Yep. Thanks." A black Charger cruised up and the guy shambled out of view. I wondered if he were the same guy who was screaming Hawaiian chants at 2am.

Leif had a hair cut. I felt bad about only having $3 for a tip, until we walked out and I noticed bloody nicks in one of his ears. With all the haircuts boys have to have, it's a wonder they have any ears left at all by the time they're adults.

Met an old guy at McDonalds who claimed to be Al Capone's nephew. He told me stories about throwing down his cane to beat a guy at his old-folk's home, said he was at Pearl Harbor during the bombing, and told me he knows a guy who can take care of anyone who bothers me with a phone call and a bite of his knuckle. I am thinking I need to have coffee at McDonalds more often. Me and the old Italian guy can throw down and run the town with our gnarled fists.

Mother's Day! Things are happening.

Chocolates, jewelry, flowers, and booze, I told the boys. Never fails. This morning my mother and I came down to little altars of flowers, bottles of elderflower wine and cherry kirsch, chocolate covered pistachios, and earrings. Evidence of parental success. Or spousal guilt. It's working, whatever it is.

The boys are sitting with a highlighter, drawing all over their arms and faces to prepare for an afternoon of glow-putt. Gavin drew an abstract shape on his own forehead, which kind of looks a lot like a penis. They're going out to play golf looking like they fell asleep at a kegger. I am so proud.