I think I may have forgotten how to read books. To fill the gap, I've taken up reading the Metro map.

Yesterday we ate breakfast at a diner, during which time the U.S. soccer team scored its tying goal and its winning-and-then-disqualified goal. I had never before been in a room packed with people who found themselves spontaneously erupting into the "U-S-A, U-S-A" chant. It was a tad disconcerting, though on the other hand the goals were thrilling.

Then we went to the Phillips Collection. This is a very lovely museum with, among other flashy treasures, a small dim room devoted to four Mark Rothko paintings. For more on my feelings about Rothko, see here. However, I saw less of this collection than might have been ideal because Paul's age of maturity tends to diminish in art museums, meaning that I need to spend a certain amount of time coddling him into good behavior so that the artists in the family (i.e., Tom and James) get a chance to actually look at art. Meanwhile, Paul and I drink soda in the cafe and make cozy personal comments about puppies, noisy old men, etc.

After the Phillips, we proceeded to the National Archives, where my friend Lucy works. Making the most of that perk, she put on her special-person badge and bustled the boys through special-person doors, and showed them how to cut in front of the regular standing-in-line mob to see the Big Documents. There is nothing like being allowed to cut into the Bill of Rights queue to make a kid feel important.