Another cozy family Sunday: Me: Hey, Wesley. Come over here. Do you like this red scarf I'm knitting? Wesley: Yeah! He watches with an excited grin as I drape it over his shoulders, to check the length. Other Brother: Too short. Me: I'll make it longer, and then you can wear it, okay? Wes . . . (More)

Wesley's new favourite phrase is "none of your beeswax." He wrote me a note: He's got sass.

So this evening, we went out for dinner as part of the celebrations for my mother's birthday. Halfway through the meal, while the rest of us continued eating, we struck up a game of Eye Spy in order to keep the well-stuffed and wriggling Wesley occupied. After exhausting the near-empty restaurant . . . (More)

I stared down at the segment of fish. I was entranced by the sharp, angular skin, stiff with salt, pan-fried and browned wonderfully, doused in its own oil, attached to tender, succulent white meat; all rested on a bed of fresh, hot rice, its plain taste tempering any overwhelming flavours. Balan . . . (More)

There is little more enjoyable than watching an adorable seven-year-old boy getting a haircut. Ordinarily a squirmy sort of character, he sits professionally still, a silky apple green cape thrown over his small shoulders, his boots high off the floor. The curves of his face are a contrast w . . . (More)

"Did you just...?" Wesley (very awake) has just farted, and didn't deign it a priority to inform me until I was leaning close. How a little man like him makes a stink that big utterly eludes me. . . . (More)

"'Behold the Man'," Other Brother says, "was one of the paintings we studied today." "Oh, yeah?" I say. "I've seen a lot of variations on that theme. 'Ecce homo' is the usual phrase." A pause. "What?" "It's Latin. It means the same thing." "Oh." "So, yes. 'Ecce homo'--" "Don't say that." . . . (More)

One of Wesley's many block structures. The moment I saw them, I thought of the temple at Karnak, and the forum ruins in Rome.

A small number of individuals have been expressing curiosity about my physical appearance. And I confess, I can no longer hold the fort. Your persistence has overwhelmed me.   So, I present to you, me. On the back: Ever the mercenary. I'm glad Wesley is turning out better than I have . . . (More)

Days ago, we were watching Bob the Builder, lying on our sides, my arm slung protectively over him. My fingers were just tickling the belly of his sweater; he wriggled, and I giggled. Once we quieted, we were watching Bob's homemade toy boat zip around the pond, pursued by a flock of snowy whit . . . (More)