I should probably have a sense of foreboding. After all, it has been a quiet and uneventful Sunday here in the hills.
Toby woke up from his nap about half an hour ago, and Jack is now quietly entertaining him while Toby contentedly remains in the crib.
Jack and I snuggled in one of the big leather recliners and watched an episode of SpongeBob while Toby napped, after the boys both actually ate their PB&J's at lunch.
Chloe the cat is sound asleep in a furry lump on my lap, while Gizmo the dog snores noisily in his favorite wing chair. Cassie the cat is in her spot-of-choice on Jack's bed, snoozing.
Pumpkins are roasting in the oven, soon to be mashed and baked into pie for Thursday's feast in Ohio.
It's a rare, perfect Sunday.
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Update: This entry was started earlier this afternoon. Before the dog threw up again. Before the boys got into UFC Deathmatch mode. Before I was elbow deep in pumpkin puree and screaming "assistants".
Still? A rare, perfect Sunday.
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