Rose was reading To Kill a Mockingbird for school. When I sheepishly told her that I don't think I've ever read it, she ordered it from the library for me because she thought it was wonderful and really wanted me to read it.

Last night Rose burst into tears over prepping for her in class essay exam. She wouldn't quit until 10:30, and John and I were feeling sad and helpless. Tonight, she called me downstairs and read me all the topic sentences and evidence she was planning to put on the notecards she was allowed to bring to class. It's not just that she stopped freaking out and got it done; it's that she shared it with me. And, of course, rehearsing it with me is a great study technique.

The parent of a friend of David's, who I don't know very well, complimented me on David's manners and how lovely he is to have around.

David buried himself in woodchips at school, buried up to his neck, and lost a shoe in the exhuming process. Not a problem because those shoes were totally dead anyway. I had already ordered him a new pair, and they, serendipitously, arrived that night. The last time I ordered him these exact same shoes he had a total fit, refused to try them on, and I returned them. This time they were keepers.