I'm cleaning off the desk. It would be much more efficient to start a small, contained fire, but don't tell our insurance company I said that. I stumble across a yellow sheet of note paper. It reads:
This was late July or early August of 2009. I spent my evenings resting my weary feet, watching Monk, and timing contractions.
Sweet Ainsley was on her way, but in no great hurry to arrive.