We're no longer sleeping on the floor. Our bed finally arrived and, astoundingly, we actually learned from our mistakes and paid the delivery guys to set it up. Massive, solid, wooden, it now bestrides our bedroom, a furnishings colossus. It is, very clearly, a bed for spawning progeny. Sadly, our spawning days behind us, Keith and I will have to bequeath it to one of the boys and let them produce the progeny.
Owen, however, is not quite on board the progeny-producing project, as he "can't really see the point of babies." Our hopes rest with Hugh. He surprised me the other day when he declared that he and his future wife would adopt. Thinking that his plans constituted a heart-warming affirmation of his own adoption, I was delighted. . . until he added that his wife of course will be incredibly hot and he doesn't want her figure wrecked by pregnancy. Before I could bellow my response, he went on, "And we're only having one child because I'm going to buy it the best of everything, you know, designer clothes and stuff."
Maybe we shouldn't get our hopes up.
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