So tonight BioMom was in charge of putting kids to bed as I met my brother for coffee at the airport during his layover.
As an aside, I think he's turning into our dad. Our actual live conversation in scheduling this little tet a tet, went something like this:
Me, picking up my ringing cell phone: Hello?
Not -- Hi [Blogauthor]! How are you?
Not -- Hi [Blogauthor]! I'm going to be in town on Sunday, can you make some time for me?
Me: Um. Pat? . . .[My twin brothers sound EXACTLY alike. Often I need context to tell them apart]. Yeah. It's me. You called my cell phone. . . .
Him (sounding not unlike Tarzan): I'm going to that Jesuit college in Milwaukee and flying through Minneapolis. Can you meet me? Have present for [Eight]. Call Saturday. We set up time. We meet at airport. Grunt. Grunt Grunt. Don't want to carry bag for nuthin'
So BioMom was in charge. In charge at night. In charge, at night during the witching hour. In charge, at night, during the witching our, after a time-change, and at the culmination of birthday extravaganza weekend.
You can see why I love this woman. All I had to do was leave, chat with my brother, and then return home to a quiet house and my gal doin' the dishes.
I should have come of age in the '50s... Well, without the sexism, racism, and violence. But yeah. The 50s....
She reported that she had read Big some stories while Eight (!) relaxed in her (relatively newly acquired) own room. When the books were over Big rushed into his room (he rushes everywhere. Sauntering is not in his repertoire.). He beat her to his crib and by the time she got there, she had only time to witness him effectuating the Fosbury Flop.
Unfortunately, as we all know, what goes up, must come down: if he can get in, I'm sure he's only days away from getting out.
On to the next stage!