"We DON'T say poopy," Joey blurts. I guide his round hand into a pj sleeve.
"What?" I say.
"We DON'T say poopy," he says again. He rounds his eyes and elongates DON'T. He shakes his head in exaggerated mime.
"Oh," I say, "yeah. Good boy." I zip his jammies.
"I not go poopy in my unda-wear," he says.
"That's right," I say. I mimic in an elongated nod. "Go poopy in the POTTY."
Like most things he narrates the rules as he goes, garnishes with overstated gesture, watches for reaction, every obedience an act of love.
5567. Christmas. The gift of Christ, once again we celebrate his great sacrifice for us.
5568. The many gifts made and bought and exchanged with great love -- we celebrate with our small family and great big extended family.
5569. We draw the days out long and leisure. Christmas ebbs like a tide gently turning, reeling in the new year.
5570. Gramma's old Bernina, Grampa passes on a gift of many memories and many quilts to come. It even comes to me freshly serviced.
5571. We pass the 35 week mark and await the arrival of our newest little girl.
5572. "When I smell that," Myra commentates on Jack's visit to the bathroom, "it makes my eyes reeking." She blinks to illustrate watery eyes. We laugh and laugh, humor surrounding us on every side.