Summer was going swimmingly. No triple digit days. The boys getting along well, with just an occasional, basic skirmish. Lots of down time. Great reading.
One evening in late July we had a dinner party al fresco. In between bites of bruschetta (our tomato plants were high yield) and Penne with Pesto (ditto, our basil), a friend with a teenage daughter who had just returned from a two-week trip to a rural village in Argentina to assist in an orphanage (did I mention she’s the daughter I always wanted?) mentioned she was thankful her raven-haired beauty hadn’t returned with head lice. Another friend chimed in that her lovely, gold-locked 15-year-old had the dreaded beasts at least five times. With a compassionate smirk and crossed fingers, I commented that I was likely above and beyond that scourge. With a house of boys to men, I would never hear, “There was the cutest hat at Forever 21!,” or “We laid out all the pillows on the living room floor and all 20 of us slept there!”