It has been blissfully peaceful here with all of my teenage dearies away for the holidays.  But soon they shall be returning.  When they are here, my 268 children, a good day is defined as “a day in which no one decides to throw a flaming couch, or anything else including bodily fluids, out of his or her window.” Oh that I had more of these days.

However, when they are not here, I can define a good day differently.  Yesterday, I had a completely remarkable day when I read stories to a non-verbal boy who was hooked up to a vent at the hospital.  After an hour of stories (note: I hate Blues Clues.  Blue, I don’t care where you hid the stupid blanket) broken up with my colorful commentary ("Frankly, it’s this kids fault for giving the moose a muffin.  I mean, he’s a wild animal.  Of course he’s going to try to get more.  And didn’t his mother teach him not to get massive mammals in the house??!!") his parents came back and I got up to leave.  The boy started thrashing and shaking.  For a moment I thought he was having a seizure, but it dawned on me that this was the only way he had to tell me that he wanted me to keep reading.  And here I thought he was just suffering through my inane babble (not unlike all of you).  I read more stories.  Because rarely can I capture an audience like that.