Okay, so that title has absolutely nothing to do with anything I have to say, but I just wanted to work in here somewhere that spring has finally made it. It seems her flight got delayed, then she got stuck in Atlanta (because that’s all there is to do in Atlanta), then, when she finally got to Fargo, her luggage ended up somewhere in rural Antarctica, and she had to rent a car to pick it up because the airlines wouldn’t deliver it. So you can understand why she’s taken so long to get here. At least, I can.

Lots to catch up on here, so read fast, okay?

Aaron’s hard drive on his Powerbook just died. Not a slow, lingering death where you have to pull the plug at the end—no, this caught us by surprise. In a moment of clarity amidst the panic, he was able to salvage his work from it before we laid it to its final resting place. He’s in mourning right now, so I’m (once again) doing the typing.

Oh yeah, and he’s started a garden on our balcony. He’s having fun with that. I don’t personally know what’s so all-fire exciting about radish sprouts (I detest radishes), but I got an update every-hour-on-the-hour today on the progress of his radish sprouts. His last report mentioned the possibility of some action in the onion and carrot sections. I’m trying really hard to contain my excitement about all this. I’m also trying really hard to figure out what to do with a row and a half of onions—I mean, they just don’t go well with macaroni and cheese, you know?

I’m a bit skeptical on the garden front, to be quite honest. My parents had a garden once—a dismal failure, if I remember correctly. And, I had to weed. The only thing I hate worse than weeding is having to eat all the stuff I weeded around. Fortunately, I don’t think most of the stuff we grew that summer was worth eating, so I at least escaped the worst part.

Well, this wouldn’t be a worthwhile post if I didn’t bring you up to speed on Christian’s progress in the growing-up area. First of all, we’re pretty sure he’s going to grow up to be a percussionist because he constantly beats on stuff—his xylophone, the side of the computer desk, the wall, the doors, the cupboards, the bird cage, daddy’s face. He’s really getting the hang of the rhythm thing. I think, anyway. It’s hard to tell with this headache.

Second, we’re proud to report that he’s learned a very important life skill—one that he’ll be able to use for many, many years to come. He has somehow stumbled upon the singular ability of his index finger to fit up his nostrils, in order that he might clear out whatever is obstructing them. He’s had a bit of a snotty nose the past few days, and it’s been quite handy to skip the nasal aspirator and just let him go at it with his finger. Of course, the gobs of white muccous that he sometimes extracts get a bit messy, but—have you ever tried to hold a one-year-old down while you stick a bulb up his nose and suck the snot out? I’m thankful for his finger.

Besides, I can’t imagine that stuff could taste worse than radishes. Could it?