On Friday, late Friday night, I wrote an 800 word post. But even as I was writing it, it felt forced. I couldn't really get my arms around the topic, and I knew it was poor writing. But I posted it anyway. Maybe you saw it; it was up for about nine hours. This morning, Stephanie read what I wrote and said what I was thinking: "Hmm. You sound pretty grumpy." Which wasn't my intention. So I deleted it. 

 And that's the thing about this NaBloPoMo obligation. Sure, it's a good goal, intended to give us all some accountability and motivation to post more. But sometimes, when you are out of ideas, the only thing to do is write a real dog of a post. And my greater goal is to be proud of what I post here. So anyway. I whiffed on Friday. No gold star for me. Boo hoo. But I'm okay with it. And I'll keep posting. I have a few more topics earmarked for the remainder of the month, and some of them are real doozies, so hang in there. In the meantime...

* * *

Today, Stephanie and I were talking about the current cold spell. It reminded her of the time the water in the house froze last winter. 

Stephanie: "I know global warming is supposed to be a big deal..." 

(sheepish pause) 

"but I really love living in Alaska..." 

(rhetorical pause)

"and I just wish it was warmer." 

(thoughtful pause) 

"It may work out for us."

* * *

Earlier this week, Stephanie was on our local army base visiting a friend. The guard at the checkpoint saw the kids in the car and gave the boys a stack of papers with instructions to fold them into many, many different kinds of paper airplanes. The next day, she spent several hours folding them all into a full armada. And later, they had an airplane throwing party with upwards of thirty paper planes. For a few moments it rained down enough planes to blot out the sun. 

Tobias: "How exciting! It's magical." 

* * *

Stephanie and I were having a conversation in the living room when Toby walked into the room, stood to the side, and pulled his pants down to his knees. I watched him in paralyzed disbelief, and honestly thought he was about to pee on the carpet. Instead he started to scratch himself under his scrotum. 

Stephanie, horrified: "What are you doing?"

Tobias, matter-of-factly: "I was scratchin' myself." 

* * *

Tonight, when putting him to bed, Tobias asks me, "Will you sleep with me in my bed, Day-ad?"

"No," I said, "you're on your own." 

"But I'm worried about you." 

Where does he get this stuff?