It rained the ENTIRE time that Dean was in Baltimore. Sunday morning, the girls and I skipped church because A) the baby had a fever and a runny nose, B) I haven't sat through a sermon since childbirth in February without being paged to come nurse, and C) I belatedly realized I hadn't washed my hair in four days. Since I can't wear a baseball cap to church, I was confined to the homefront once again (Molly, don't even suggest the powder). It is times like these that I could join my mother in her insatiable longing for a wig. We lolled around on the bed and Frankie played teacher to Molly and a motley crew of stuffed animals:
"OK, kids, I am going to hold these ordinary peddlers on my lap. It is MY turn to talk and YOUR turn to listen."
"Today I am going to tell you a story about a faraway place called MINN-E-SOTA."
"And in MINNESOTA there is a place called JER-U-SALEM."
She obviously gets her stellar understanding of geography from her mother.
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