Let me read what you wrote. . .

I didn't write anything, Debbie.

She assumed that because I've been on the computer I wrote something. All I was doing was Googling for an explanation for why our Bose Sounddock crackels and hisses whenever we dock the iPod. I wasn't writing anything. I barely have the ambition to sit upright let alone tap on the keyboard.

I'm tired. I have band-aids over the holes my tennis shoes made in the back of my heels. I caught a cold in Orlando and it's reaching it's crescendo now that I'm home. I'm still grumpy because I got lost on the way home from the airport.

The girls are sitting on the bed looking at old pictures. It's raining outside and there aren't too many things for them to do other than follow us around in the hope that we will do something - anything - interesting.

Allie just walked over and held a picture up to my face. "My butt," she said as she pointed to an image of her bare bottom we took when she just learned to walk. "I have a rock star butt," she said.

Whatever.

It's almost 11:00 a.m. and I still haven't showered. This isn't uncommon for a Sunday, but today it seems to be more of a symptom than a choice.

Right now I'm staring at Debbie's feet. That's the kind of ennui that drives people to violence. In fact, Julia just bent over and quietly bit Allie on the shoulder. Allie screamed and Deb put Julia to bed as punishment. Now Deb is applying ice to Allie's wound.

Suddenly it's quiet.

Now I'm watching Deb try to breathe through her clogged sinuses. She just told me to stop scowling at her. I wasn't aware I was scowling.

If she was any closer, I'd quietly bite her on the shoulder.