Our Little Buddy.

Oh, hi, Jackson. Good morning. Thanks for coming over to hang out with Bean and Toot. Yeah, I know, they're still in their nighties and lounging around, and you've been up for at least a couple of hours, totally ready for practice. It's ridiculous. All I can say is, I'm working on it. At least you weren't here on Friday when I threw the following in brief spasms of irrational rage and frustration:

1. a broom (after a frantic and futile attempt to sweep every stinking grain of sand from my un-sidewalk onto the street before the street cleaners crawled by).

2. a medicinal syringe (filled with the syrupy orange Pedialyte that Rudy repeatedly dribbled out of the side of her mouth while she screamed and cried and I tried shooting it into the back of her throat, desperate for her to get some frigging electrolytes after days of many revolting diapers).

Don't worry, Jackson. Aside from Marley's stomach bug, our two-hour wait yesterday at the Town Hall for summer recreation sign-ups, and the endocrinologist appointment we took my mother to this morning while Rudy screeched for no reason, you wailed for a bottle, and Marley sat slumped and bleary-eyed while I kept asking her if she thought she might throw up, things are going pretty smoothly.

You're the best, Jackson. I hope staying with me and my maniacs is at least a little bit fun. Isn't it great when Marley and Rudy are napping, at least? And we get to listen to Howard and Robin do the news?