After several days of fretful Weblessness, I'm happy to report that the patient lived. I had to wait until last Friday before our Tech Doctor was back at his desk, but he quickly diagnosed that my laptop's motherboard was corrupting the hard drive. You hear that, ladies? The motherboard, so named apparently for its progenitive, nurturing, and protective nature, tried to go all Medea on my data. All our lives the techies have told us to back up our data, print things out, etc., because you Just Never Know. And we do it, when we remember, until a near-death experience like this one gets you religion. So my next project is to make my hard-copy photo scrapbook, before Livia Soprano puts a hit out on my kids' birthday pictures.
When it came time to see the Tech Doctor, I was still on vacation. Which means our sitter Bridget was also still on vacation. So after I dropped Robert at kindergarten, TwoBert and I went up to Meet The Coworkers. I normally like bringing my kids to work, because their darlingness reflects well on me. "We are proud to employ this man," they think, "because his children have a blinding charisma that burns my retinas, yet I cannot look away." But after I dropped off the PC, we ran into the Big Kahuna, Queen of the Whole Shooting Match, who knelt down to throw her arms around little TwoBert. And he responded by slapping his backside and yelping, "I like my butt!"
See, we're in a huge brother-worship phase right now, and Robert's glutes dominates his daily discourse. Naturally, TwoBert is along for the ride, singing the praises of rumpophilia at every opportunity. I find myself torn between 1) riding it out and 2) actively telling my children to please-for-the-love-of-Mike STOP with the butts already, but lately it seems like the latter is a losing battle. Especially when our Tech Doctor, the man who saved me from a life of churning my own butter, is a native of Hong Kong named ... and I am not making this up ... Mr. But.