Violent storms and the second coming of Oscar Wilde

Last night we had some serious storms roll through -- the kind that are violent but short-lived. And as any parent knows, you're not going to make it through a storm without some added baggage in the bed, kid-form. So around 1 a.m., Catherine paraded into our bedroom with all 7,569 of her stuffed horses under her arms, knocked over a water glass, and cried out, "I'm scared!"

Well, geez. I'm scared too when I get woken up out of a dead sleep by some shadowy giant-bat-like figure knocking over a cup of water. She and her menagerie curled up with us, and when the storm had passed, from my two inches of bedspace I whispered to her, "Storm's over, kiddo. Back to your own bed."

With her animals sprawled around her, Catherine replied, "Nah. That's okay. Besides, I just got here." Snore.

No pictures of that, but here are a few from this past week.

This is Vincent after I told him he may absolutely, positively, unequivocally NOT ride his bike in the rain. Apparently I wasn't clear enough.

And finally, this is what happens when I ask Catherine to get Dominic dressed. Repeat after me: He is not a doll. Not a doll. Nor is he Oscar Wilde.