Bob Holt

Oh, to be five:

“<SIGH> I was nailing this nail into this piece of wood, and the part of the wood with the nail in it broke off, and I can’t get the nail out, and CAN THIS DAY GET ANY WORSE?”

My-Kid Path-Shoveler returns to the longhouse for a flagon of OJ.

On stumbling upon an eviscerated deer on our family walk this morning:

Kid: “Whoa, cool, a dead animal!”

Me: “This is literally how Game of Thrones starts.”

“Dad, you’re the funniest guy in the world. Well, you and [cousin] Taylor.”

I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade. I’m living a lie.

-4°F. Suited up like an astronaut to walk the dog.

Watching Charlotte’s Web:

Charlotte (to Wilbur): “I promise I won’t let them kill you.”

Malcolm: “I think she’s going to drink their blood.”

My son has adamantly stated that he wants the game “Wow Pop” from Santa for Christmas. This is something that is entirely a figment of his imagination. But, I still catch myself starting to Google for it as though it was a real thing that actually exists.

Knitting at the semiannual Broke Arts Fair

Photo by Ben Conant

My son did some home renovation this morning.