After we settled the kids in bed last night, Rob and I went out to the front garden so that he could dig a hole for me. I tried to do it myself, but between my lame toe and the compacted, clay-filled soil in our area, I needed to bring in the big guns.
While he dug, I blathered about the kids and our trip to the pool and the crying in the pool and the crying out of the pool and the crying when we left the pool because everyone was crying at the pool. You get the idea.
Rob must have been listening attentively, because it was only after I stopped talking that we heard even more crying. From the house door inside the garage. All the crying sounded a lot like this: Mom! Dad! Dad! Mom! Mom! Dad!
We went to the door and found Older Girl, distraught, and The Boy, curiously calm. Where were you guys?, Older Girl demanded. I've been calling you. Ah, yes, nothing matches the charm of the imperious seven-year-old.
We were right here, I explained. Dad was helping me in the garden and we are coming in now.
Oh, she said, slightly chastened. I thought you guys just went out for a drive or something.
Next time, my love, next time . . .