…was the birthday of Sigmund Freud, father of all things I find interesting in literature!

Not really. But close. Anyway, everyone misspeak revealingly sometime this week in celebration of Mr. F., my hero.

So, the weekend:
Saturday we went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. I will be posting pictures of achingly cute sheep. Mary refused to nap on the way down, though she was clearly tired, and was napless throughout the trip. She was quite good, but clearly unimpressed by it all. We watched sheepdog demonstrations, examined some heartstoppingly expensive wool, and visited sheep, llamas, and alpacas. Good times were had by all. Well, by me. Plus, on the way home, we went out for sushi, which is generally the best possible dinner.

Then, yesterday, we got up early and went to the nine o’clock Mass instead of our normal 11:30, because after the 9:00 was the mother-daughter breakfast. Mary and I went, with Grandma McHale, as did Sheila, Claire, and Leah. It was breakfasty. Mary enjoyed it; she was told, repeatedly, that she was adorable, and she ate a large number of cinnamon apple slices. I think she wants to go every day. (Although, when we woke her up for the earlier service, she looked at us, blearily, with an expression that clearly asked, “Are you mad? Do you know what time it is?”

Pictures of sheep to follow!


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