I'm heading off to the Maine Council for English Language Arts annual convention today, where I'll be doing a presentation on the Frost Place dictation approach to teaching poetry. The drive will be longer than the event, but at least it's not snowing, it's not dark, and I'm not going to the hospital. Then I'm coming home to make west African-style falafel (black-eyed peas, fresh ginger, scallions), homemade pita, and a big avocado salad. No doubt I'll also listen to plenty of grousing from Son Number 2, whose NCAA bracket is highly pissed off at Harvard University's upstart basketball team this morning.

Last night, when I got back from band practice, James was sitting on the couch consuming a large bowl of ice cream and making rude personal comments about magazine ads--all of which fills me with joy and relief. We walked along the edge of a black chasm, but the fates saw fit to pull us back. I looked further down that abyss than I ever want to look again.