The morning is dark and mild. Through the open windows I hear crickets creak and, beyond them, the low growl of the highway.

I am up far too early on a Saturday morning, but Chuck is irrepressible. He is four months old now, and we are firmly in toddler land. I wail, "Can you deal with the cat? He's trying to climb me while I'm peeling potatoes," and T, like a good partner, swoops up the pest and takes him away. The living room floor is covered with cardboard boxes. We're woken at 3 by a joyous monster. Our conversation is dominated by discussions of bodily functions. We've both found ourselves automatically doing the baby-joggle when we hold him.

Of course, now that he's forked me out of bed, Hasty Stan himself has gone back to sleep. He's curled up next to me on the couch, little bat ears nestled against my hip, a portrait of Good Boy. Hah.

We're supposed to get some solid rain this weekend, starting midafternoon. T and I have plans to go out to lunch with our neighbor, at a seafood wholesaler she's learned about: apparently you can get platters of fresh sashimi and uni and eat them in the company breakroom, and we are eager to check it out. Then, if the rain holds off,  the three of us might mosey along Congress Street . . . look at a book fair, go to some vintage stores, investigate the flea market.

I'm still reading Ozick's Trust, recommended by my novelist friend Tom. I'm also looking again at Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye, and I need to get started on Brigit Kelly's collection The Orchard, which Teresa and I will be rereading together. With Betsy, I've starting a listening project: Beethoven's late string quartets. Valerie and I are watching the new season of the British baking show together. Gretchen and I go for walks and imagine performances centered around slate and ice. T and I are team-raising yet another crazy little boy. Hey, friends, it's so good to know you all.