This same time, years previous: back to normal, coffee crumb cake, learning to play, a Monday list, the quotidian (4.30.12), pot of baked beans, shredded wheat bread, rhubarb jam.

My husband and I went to a play last weekend. It was a gorgeous evening, so I made my older son take some photos of us before we left.

My husband’s patience for photo taking is nonexistent, and my son clicks at anything that moves, so we ended up with a bunch of weird photos and some blurry shots of the sky, garden, and cat.

“Why are we taking these?” my husband asked, waves of irritation radiating from his body.

“Because,” I said. “Now kiss me.”

“I’m not kissing you on camera,” he said.

We get along a lot better than we used to. No longer do we debate the merits of daily vacuuming, and if he’s going to be late, he calls.

‘Course, we still can’t agree on what movies and TV shows to watch, we don’t have shared interests, and he doesn’t pick up on my carefully placed treat-me-please ideas, such as, “WHY DON’T YOU EVER BUY ME TWIZZLERS!” but, oh well. Such is life.

Twizzlers aren’t good for me anyway.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.27.15), the quotidian (4.28.14), church of the Sunday sofa, better brownies, together.

You know how I said that when I go writing I leave the big kids at home and it’s like I have live-in maids? Well, the cleaning doesn’t happen in the most professional of ways. I know this because the children thoughtfully document their shenanigans with my camera.

Take, for instance, the day I told my older son to scrub all the screens in the house.

Not the most productive of screen-washing methods, you can see.

Full disclosure: After being twice-washed (so says the boy), the screens were still dirty and had to be redone later, but this time under the supervision of a scowling papa, no playing around allowed.

This same time, years previous: mousy mayhem, roasted carrot and red lentil soup, creamed asparagus on toast.