1. I think I am utterly humbled and have no words to thank you enough for all the love and support you showed my boy on his blog post this week. He couldn't wait to do it and was so excited to read all of your comments. From around the world! That you took the time to write such thoughtful words to him means the world to me. That some of you who read, but rarely comment were willing to do so for him touches me beyond what I can express. I am an odd sort of sentimentalist. I fall sappy at funny times. Callum always expects me to tear up and cry at movies (and that stupid baseball poem), but really, I am rarely moved by ... I don't know ... (she flaps her hands helplessly) stuff. I tend to be pretty matter-of-fact, so he doesn't know how lucky he is (to not have an overly weepy momma). All of this to say, I was very, very moved by your support of us. I didn't want to say so in the comments of Cal's post; it was his post after all. But from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

2. I think I am such a worrier. I wake up worrying about the tree that has bare patches that aren't budding and why the peonies haven't come up. I worry about homework, and how we'll manage our new baseball schedule. I worry that I'm letting people down and leaving things undone. I'm pretty sure that the only thing that will calm my monkey-mind is some shopping. And a facial. It's been far too long for both.

3. I think I need someone to explain to me why all the moisturizers that have SPF in them have to smell like sunscreen. I need recommendations people. Preferably something with retinol, for oily skin and not too smelly.

4. I think I was very clever to have figured out how to manage our new baseball schedule (one worry managed!). We're not even coming home. On baseball game nights, I'm picking Cal up from school and taking him to Panera for dinner (free Wi-Fi!) to grab a bite to eat and do some homework. Then we head to the ball field, and Neel meets us there. It's not ideal, but it's better than coming home and heading back out again.

5. I think if you live in the U.S., you can't turn on the news without hearing the story of Trayvon Martin. Mark's going to stop reading right now. He hates it when I get political. I never get political. I feel political, but here, at least, I don't get political. And I still won't. That's not what this blog is about. But Travon Martin was somone's son, and I have a son. Every cool morning Cal wears a hoodie much like the hoodie that Trayvon Martin was wearing. He mostly does it only when I tell him to, but still. It's his go-to outerwear of choice. A boy, a man-child, should be able to wear a hoodie and walk home without fear of being shot. Without fearing the man that's following him in the car. I am not saying this very eloquently, but I see my own boy walk out the door to school in his "sweet new kicks" with his hoodie pulled up, and my heart breaks for that family. So when I hear them say, "We are Trayvon," I understand.