There were eight visitors to my house today. Abby’s family friends in town on a vacation, and a friend of mine with his two kids as well as a friend of his and his daughter. Also another dog. That dog with mine made for quite a dance, it scared the kids and we walked in the rain down to the brook. 

I spent most of yesterday out and about, and I spent most of today having out and about come to me. As it turns out not only do I prefer staying in, I prefer that most people stay away. 

It’s not that I don’t like these people, it’s not that I don’t like visitors, I do. Eight is just too many. Had it been just one group instead of two I would be writing a post about something different, like how watching Roby play with an eight year old has me stoked on siblings. 

That’s true. 

One person who visited today described parenting as “the hardest and best thing you’ll ever do.” I don’t particularly care for that estimation, it’s like describing breathing as the hardest and best thing you’ll ever do. You know, you’ve got to do it your whole life, even while you’re sleeping! No breaks at all from breathing, not even on weekends. 

Can something be considered hard if it’s the very fabric of what it means to be alive? At least to me. I don’t really care for qualifying the importance of having children because I can’t really imagine it at this point. 

Breathing doesn’t feel difficult,
but I’m also not having an allergic reaction.