The Mom is gone, off on a three-day retreat, to hone her already prodigious editing skills, which I hope will mean that from now on when I ask her to read over something, she'll have graduated from, "It's okay, I guess," to the more confident, "It's okay."
The last activity she partook of before she left was helping me move our couch to our kitchen. Our downstairs has exactly three rooms, placed in a row, like the segments of a caterpillar. All three of the rooms are the same size, which means if the couch fit in the living room, then it will fit in the dining room and in the kitchen, too. The upshot is, when you visit my house, you will either be surprised at the grandness of our kitchen, or the puniness of our living room, depending on your personality. Personally, I am surprised by both.
As for why the couch is in the kitchen, it is because I am through screwing around. Somebody's getting potty trained this week, by God, and I'm purging our living spaces of diapers, pull-ups, and furniture until it happens.
Don't expect regular posts.