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2001-08-10 | 11:38 a.m.

I make a list. Pepys, Boswell, Goethe, Melville.

Felony plays a list. Spears, 'N Sync, Diamond Rio, Vitamin C.

I look forward to the day when she cringes over "Oops, I Did It Again" the way I cringe over "Love Will Keep Us Together."

Da da da da da...

I knew when I wrote about having good children that something would immediately happen to prove me wrong. That something seems to be three days of Jasper doing his impersonation of a histrionic flying monkey. When he is not banging on the keyboard or testing Samsonite luggage or eating two pieces of unsanctioned cinnamon swirl bread at the same time, when he is not complaining, running from me while laughing, or jumping off the top bunk, he is crying me a river over his latest injury, real or imagined. He banged his head this morning and now has a knot so big it looks like something you'd see on Popeye.

My parental mercury is rising.

Spent the morning trying to design a birthday party invitation. Girls screaming, Jasper whining. Cajoling, clogging on the linoleum. Must call Chicago at 2:30. Feign businesslike. But first, my pretties, a one-way trip to Nana's.

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