It turns out that it is because one now lives with a two-foot-tall mad genius set designer and wardrobe director.
Our remote control is currently lovingly wrapped in two thirds of a sheet of crumpled white paper, secured with a rubber band. The handkerchiefs are mostly in use as bulky diapers (folded and tucked by me, on demand -- "Diaper please") wrapped around the hind ends of toy cars. There is now always a full laundry basket at the foot of our bed, excellently positioned for tripping on and swearing at, because Jane is short and our bed is tall, and she understandably feels that standing on a basketful of clothing is the best solution to this problem. A tidy row of wooden trucks can often be found tucked under the edge of the quilt, where Steve would like to slide in, and the shampoo is filed on the bookshelf between Dashiell Hammett and Jack Vance.
We can all frequently be seen around town with sprightly little bows in our hair. Jane generally prefers to put the fuchsia one on Steve. It must be said that he is the member of the family who carries off the bow with the most style. It's very fetching against his dark brown pixie cut.
I have no pictures for you, of these events or otherwise, because all my photos are currently trapped on another computer, the trackpad of which is not working thanks to some strategically splashed milk, and I haven't yet dug out a mouse from the depths of wherever it might be hiding. Fortunately you've all gone off and done other things, or moved to Peru, or turned to dust, or however you most like to respond to centuries of nothingness, so you won't mind. But I've missed you and am sorry to have been so delinquent. Tomorrow night I get to fly on a red-eye to Ohio. Without trying to wrangle a toddler at the same time, yay! But in a middle seat, BOO. Will the extremity of my general state of exhaustion permit me to sleep even so? Can the magic of Benadryl conquer the horror of the middle seat? Time will tell.