The Brawn grins as he pulls on his pajamas, which are fresh from the dryer and toasty warm.
He starts to run out of the room, then stops and runs to give me a big hug. I pick him up and sit him on my lap and kiss his neck.
"Who's my little boy?"
"That's right. And when you're bigger than me and stronger than me and smarter than me and know more stuff than me and are the one picking me up instead of me picking you up, who's still going to be my little boy?"
"That's right. You're always going to be my little boy. Forever and ever."
He kisses me, then says, "Even when we're in heaven?"
He kisses me again, then hops down and starts to run out of the room. "Or hell," he adds conversationally as he leaves.
The Golden Weasel is apparently flirting with her identity. Since shortly after birth, she—unlike her sisters—showed a marked predilection for the color pink and clothes of a frilly nature, to the point of trying to wear skirts outside in the middle of winter and looking horrified at the thought of blue jeans.
More recently, however, she's begun to brand more things acceptable, including the occasional dark color. But even so, today took me by surprise.
"See this?" she chirped, showing me the back of her hand, which was sporting brightly colored ink. "It's the Hello Kitty stamp...of death."