What I should probably try to chronicle tonight is how Jane, Beanie, and I came to the conclusion this morning that Plutarch is garlic. (That’s a compliment.)

But it’s late, and I only have a few minutes here, and the pieces of today that might disappear if I don’t write them down are small moments, not big conversations.

Teenagers playing Rock Band in my living room with abandon and zest; I loved that.

Rilla screaming, squealing, shrieking, scurrying the loop of kitchen and living room, daring (begging) one of our visitors—a tender-hearted eleven-year-old who is wise in the ways of big-brotherhood—to chase and ...

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