“Penelope busted Gresham’s ball,” said the oldest.

“What?  She did what?”

“She busted his ball,” she repeated with that why-did-anyone-leave-you-in-charge tone she sometimes speaks in when mom takes off and leaves me in charge.

“Say that again.”

“She. Busted. His. Ball.” And the hand went to her hip.

And my hand went to my mouth to stifle the laughter.

And then I took a picture.

And my children still have no idea why their father was so amused by Gresham’s misfortune.  But they will.  Or Gresham will. When he’s about twelve.

——-

Speaking of busted.  I had a guy come out to the house to make sure our heater was working. Seems like it runs non-stop and our gas bills last year were enormous.

An hour after he arrived I was told, “You’re not gonna like what I have to tell ya.”

Nossir, I didn’t.  I didn’t like it at all.  What he had to tell me was that our heater, because it had rusted through in places, was pumping carbon monoxide into our house.  Well, that explains the dead plants, head aches and possibly the princess’ rampage against Gresham’s ball.

After a second opinion, I got to spend a lot of money on a new heating and cooling thingy.  And it’s possible I paid too much on account of my not being all that knowledgeable about home repairs.  You may have guessed that by my calling this deal I just spent thousands on a heating and cooling thingy.

A crew is coming out to the house tomorrow morning to install it.  I’ll be on my way to Virginia to speak at a church service for young adults.  Now that’s something I know a little bit about.  I know, for instance, that the ball story is not a good one to lead with but one to keep at the ready in case the crowd turns out to be all twelve year-old boys and I’m in desperate need of “relevance.”