Poor Peter


Last night Robert and I went on a bike-run. He rode his bike all over town and I panted, sweat, and clomped as fast as I could on foot. (He’ll make a great trainer someday. He wasn’t going to let me stop until I darn near passed out.)

Peter had a really hard time with it because until he gets a hard cast on his thumb, his bike is off-limits. Well, Peter thought we were gone too long so he snuck out of the house to look for us.

Let me tell you, it’s weird to turn off the running trail and see your injured son fly by on a bike, closely pursued by your husband in a jeep. And as hey pass you see your daughter waving out the back window.

“We better go home,” Robert said to me solemnly. “Peter is in trouble.”

Very astute, Robs.


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