Twins

We're not having twins. Sorry if that title threw you. The Minnesota Twins suck, by the way. I'm just saying.

Speaking of things that involve three strikes and playing shitty, Lyla almost got sent home early from daycare today. Had she Hershey-squirted her pants a third time, we would've gotten the dreaded phone call. So we're keeping our fingers crossed that Lyla keeps it under wraps tomorrow. Her mood is fine and her eating is fine. She's probably teething and swallowing so much saliva that it's, well, you know.

Julie has informed me that she cannot under any circumstances leave work tomorrow. There's too much efficiency that needs maximizing and too many project plans that won't be as impactful without her synergy. If I get the call, meanwhile, I'll have to get my remaining classes covered by God-knows-who. It's a logistical conundrum.

And on the other side of the world, since we're on the subject of twins and logistical conundrums, Julie's twin sister Jen and her new husband Jason had to figure out how to get from Switzerland to Paris despite a Metro strike. But after a detour through Germany they made it and are now sitting in some bistro eating bread and chocolate and drinking wine.

So clearly we're leading parallel lives: their Metro strike is our child with diarrhea. I'm not complaining; it's just that our life is a different kind of honeymoon.