This morning in the car on our way to drop Hudson off for basketball camp, he said, "When I grow up, I am going to make a movie, and it is going to be rated R-33, and it is going to be called The Icy Black Hand of Death!" This aspiration, I am sure of it, has everything to do with the fact that when I found him this morning at 7 a.m., and as I have found him most mornings this summer, he was curled up on the couch, under a blanket, with Calvin and Hobbes draped across his lap:
Me: How long have you been awake?
He: Since 6:15.
Me: I am going to make you some scrambled eggs so you have extra vim and vigor for basketball camp today!
He: Also two, no THREE pieces of cinnamon raisin toast! And chocolate frosted sugar bombs!
At the pool one day last week, I was reading and watching them play. There was grabbing, hugging, histrionic wailing, and what appeared to be at least one full-immersion baptism. Harper came over to get her goggles, and I asked, casually, what they were playing exactly. "We are acting out Dramatic Scenes of Death!" she chirped. I felt a glow of pride surely analogous to what Marmie felt as she listened to the March sisters act out Pilgrim's Progress.
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