Sent at 9:41 AM on Thursday:

Brad:  hey -

Pidgie was talking about Mother’s Day in the car…

and she said “Oh Daddy, tomorrow we’re making mama a present for mudder’s day”

and i said “really?! are you excited?”

and she said “yes, because i love mama SO much”

me:  she’s the best in the world

Brad:  i know.

i told her that when we go to bed, we talk about how awesome she is…

and after she was putting you to bed last night [a game we were playing in which she'd put me to bed in her room and then pretend to go to sleep in our bed, and I'd have to keep asking her for another blanket, a glass of water, etc.], every time we climbed into bed she’d say “she’s so awesome”

me:  haha

i was cracking up at her sighing when i’d ask for something

i love exasperated Pidge

Brad:  one time she sighed and said “she’s the worst.”

pause

“but she’s awesome”

she pretty much has parenting nailed

me:  i want this all written down

As much as I’d like it to be, this is not going to be a post about O.P.P.

…or cartoon baseball bats, which are really worthy of their own website.

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I have long considered blogging as therapy – and lord knows I love me some therapy. There is an immeasurable benefit to spilling out all the crazy-making junk in your head to an impartial third party/potentially everyone in the entire goddamn world via the Internet.

Plus, the Internet has stuff like this, making it the best therapist ever.

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I can remember with perfect clarity what my life was like four years ago. What I can’t remember, however, is when this kid:

Looked like this kid:

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Well. I owe you a birthday post (FOUR! The brewsterfruit is FOUR!) and an update on a whole slew of other things, but… it’s hard to think or talk about anything else besides Boston right now, you know? Of course you do.

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