Pookums is Home

Our lovely young daughter spent the night with a friend. Now she is home again. The quiet of our home has been replaced by a voice that is a study in decibels. The floors resound with flouncing and the occasional stomp. All seems an exhuberant exclamation that "I am here. See me. Hear me. Acknowledge me. And while you're at it, bask in the glory that is Pookums."

There is a certain charm about teenagers. At times it is an obnoxious charm. Or perhaps a charm that strikes strings of wistful melancholy in us. But, at least this morning, there is no denying the vigor and elan of the young.