My daughter the Brit.

Mum.

I fear I may sound like a broken record here, but I once again am not feeling uber healthy right now. I have these recollections from my youth of finishing illnesses with a crystal clear clarity and definition, when I would leap from the couch and shrug off the comforter, ready to rejoin the 4th grade. The older I get, the blurrier the line becomes between able-bodiedness and sickliness. Now when I get ill, it draaaaags on.

This, plus my watching the girls solo for most of the night, means I'm beat.

We were lucky enough to be looking out the front door tonight when Jen pulled up, home at last from a long day of school, interviewing, studying, and final-taking. I asked the girls, "Who's that?!? Who's home??" And Lily answered: "Mum" It wasn't a fluke, I heard her say it again after Jen came in.

Mum? What the hell is that? Has she been secretly whooshing off to England while I think she's at day care?

I'm sure Andy, my boss, will be thrilled to hear that I've spawned an Anglophile.

Day two hundred and sixty two.

Love that swoop in the hair.

Leaf-stomper.