A couple of weeks ago we bought some underpants for Victoria. She was very excited about getting Wiggles underpants--until then, I hadn't realized that she was a fan. I used the $25 Amazon credit that was burning a hole in my epocket to get a set of three videos and made her a very happy girl. The first dozen times watching these shows, I enjoyed them. Now I am thoroughly tired of them, but Victoria is still enthralled. She doesn't want to watch alone, though, so we both sit in the big chair and I read as she watches. Or, more specifically this evening, as she watches and removes a blue crayon-shaped bandaid from her arm, rolls it into a ball, and shoves it up her right nostril. I emerged from Zilpha Keatley Snyder's Below the Root when she plaintively requested that I "get it out" while giant tears rolled out of her right eye. I have a lovely pair of hemostats (much better than the half-unfolded paperclip I used years ago to get a big pebble out of Christopher's nose) but it was way, way up there and no one was home to hold her still. So we spent almost three hours in the Washington Adventist Hospital emergency room waiting for help. We brought a doll with us and one book. Not that this is much of an accomplishment, but I have now committed the text of Max's Bath to memory. It's quite possible that a good portion of the people who were in the waiting room have as well.