So I picked J up at the airport, along with the boys, and we had lunch and came home and she headed right to bed for a nap. I had three hours of interesting time while B decided he wanted the same amount of attention from me that he'd gotten from two cousins, two uncles, a greatgrandmother, a grandmother and their housekeeper, and C decided to try out all the new limit-testing tricks he'd learned in the past week, including hissing and declaiming "Don't you dare tell me what to do!" (Which is kinda funny in an almost-four-year-old, but you can't let him know that, and also not so funny when you want him to stop trying to fill the whole bathroom with foaming hand soap.)

While the boys were in bed and bath respectively, J opened her suitcase and started unpacking. First thing out was the red-and-white box of Popeye's chicken. One of the few things I really regret about living here is that there is no Popeye's chicken franchise less than 3 hours away by car. Every trip we go on, back comes a box. When we used to visit the inlaws in Toledo, we'd pull in at the truckstop on the way from the Detroit airport. So even in the haze of sleep-deprivation that was taking care of almost four months and almost four years, J remembered to picky up a box of spicy chicken.

And I am a sentimental fool.