My first "child" is 9

Happy Birthday, Percy Pug!

Snarky but seriously

Why hasn't Krystal Ball changed her name? Why did her parents name her that? Why are people such flipping idiots in parking garages?

Why does anyone still listen to John McCain?

Hah, Eric Cantor! But David Brat? Scary!

Brava Italia!

Did anyone else receive the recent Restoration Hardware mailing? AKA tonnage drop-off? Ridiculous.

Dinner was fabulous: plank-grilled salmon alongside caramelized fennel, leeks and oranges. Delish! I made a coconut cream pie too, because Tom loves it, and it's better if you make and then let it rest overnight. Naturally, he has already jumped in, but I'm gonna wait. So what'd I do? I had vanilla ice cream with leftover chocolate caramel on top. Insanely good.

Today was, in other news, the sort of day which culminates in my feeling like both excellent and failed mom. I was enthusiastic, loving, patient teacher, fair negotiator. Yet too I was angry and I lost it round about 5p, tired of whining that sounded spoiled and bratty, worried that despite my best efforts, I'm the cause of such behavior.

It makes sense to me that when we love others as much as we love our children, it's hard not to give all we can, perhaps even more. But is such giving always a means to the right end?

When Oliver had a cow about the color of his camp water bottle, it felt so inane as to not be believed. I know he is but five, but I blamed myself and Tom for much of his ridiculous behavior. Did we ask too many questions, offer too many choices, indulge too many preferences? I know that I always want my children to feel that their interests and opinions have been taken seriously, have been respected and considered! But crap, I know I've also tried to instill a sense of gratitude and humility in them, and when it seems to be gone like the wind, I am flummoxed.

Ol and I made up. Of course we did, but I have Foxy and a few other treasures in a bag in my bedroom being held for ransom: change of behavior or else. Latitude is one thing. Free rein is another!

So although it's easier to go for the quick and heart-warming bright-eyed smile, I'm going to continue to try my damnedest to hold out and think long term.

I did it, I did it: a really fab Italian pasta

Not gonna lie, y'all, our trip home today was looong. After several hours, T had a serious yen for BBQ so we stopped at Wilson's, in Emporia, VA, just over the NC/VA line. Loved our waitress, the sweet tea and fries, but canned green beans are a sad excuse for a side. T said, "Well, you gotta just go for the meat," and maybe that was true, but still, I didn't want the meat. Why the 'Merica? Did they run out of As? I don't get it.

Afterwards, we all became rather peevish at the number of hours ahead, and at some point I looked behind me and saw this:

This was cute until Jack touched the styrofoam plank, a microscopic bit flaked off, Ol lost his business, cried his HUGE tears which coursed down his face, smeared his "beard" and rained brown water all over A) the styrofoam and B) his Wrenchie. I didn't mention what looked like poo stains on Wrenchie and fortunately, he never noticed. But the situation just didn't energize any of us, and the final three hours were a slow hell.

Finally, FINALLY, we were home, at which point T and I felt more tired than ever and, naturally, the boys woke up as if from a 24 hour slumber: jazzed to the nines. Together they ate five PB&Js and turned the bathwater a muddy shade once all the marker washed off. T gave them haircuts, I read stories and they were off.

I turned to dinner and a week empty fridge. We brought a bunch of tomatoes home with us and had some great bucatini in the pantry (how does that tiny hole get in the middle of each noodle??). My herb garden was monstrous, so pasta it was to be.

Now in general, I fail at pasta. I mean, it's always fine, but it's never Italian good. Like when my brother-in-law just whips up a lunchtime pasta while wearing a suit and it makes you want to cry it's so magnificently good. The pasta is both chewy but tender, starchy but not. The sauce slicks it completely but is also its own element. You feel insatiable regardless of how much you devour.

Tonight, I feel as if I touched the shores of Italian good.

This.was.awesome. I mean, it was literally outstanding. I may have licked the bowl. I slow cooked fresh tomatoes in olive oil with a quartered garlic clove, a peperoncino, saffron, a Pecorino heel, chives, parsley and basil. Plenty of salt, a dash of red pepper flakes, more Pecorino. I wish I had another vat because I would eat it right now.

Buona notte.