Saturday night: Big, noisy, community fireworks show. Big, traumatized dog.
Sunday night: Slumber party for Betsy, who recently turned 15 (They called it "The Feet Fifteen" party -- lots of toenails were painted.) Playtime for little girls while the teens were off being teenish. Lots of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. (That's my girl, Betsy.)
Monday night: Sat around a fire pit in friends' yard while kids made s'mores, played Ninja, or lolled in grass and talked. Went home to a big, noisy neighborhood. Big, traumatized dog. Watched Next Food Network Star. Betsy drew this on the whiteboard in the kitchen:
Tuesday: Finished reading Doomsday Book, by Connie Willis. Loved it -- loved the holy and noble Fr. Roche, loved the ending, loved having a good cry.
Wednesday: Traumatized dog still doesn't want to go out for walks. I know a lot of people love shooting off fireworks all week long as a prelude to the Fourth of July, but I'm thinking of moving to a state that has made them illegal. Moving, however, would lead to big, traumatized children. So I'm striking that idea.