Maybe you're thinking: You let a dog that ugly sleep in your bed? Internet, if your big brown eyes were that deep I would let you sleep in my bed, because I'd dig that horrendous underbite and your tongue so long it fell out your mouth half the time. I would feed you the best kibble, baby. And even though I'd make you spend most of the night in your cage because you're still a puppy and I don't want to roll out of bed and put my foot in a steaming pile of dog poo, in the morning I'd let you jump into bed with me. Well, not with me, but with my son.

I think I'm going to have to hand in my mommy blogger crime fighting badge and secret decoder ring: Jackson's fourth birthday passed last week without a post about it. Does that mean his babyhood is over and I can have my mind back now?

Jackson's made a lot of friends in our new neighborhood. We live in a cul de sac, near a grassy playground that we can see from our windows, so he just runs down the stairs and shouts I'll be in by eleven! and I can keep an eye on his ass and read blogs at the same time. Or else he'll drag all the kids in here and start handing out weapons. I always say yes. I want him to know our house is always open to his friends. Except when they're covered in paint. Then they have to take it outside.

Can you see that I've let him go out in his pajama top, what appear to be green leggings, and clogs?

I've been experiencing kind of a letdown after all this change. For the last couple of weeks I've just been kind of sad for no real reason, and touchy, and bored, and I don't feel like posting photos of the places where the new carpet is curling up. I can't squeeze any entertainment out of our need for additional dryer vents. What interests me right now is hanging family photos on the wall and finding something to read.

All my books are packed up in boxes in the garage, and every time I open a box I tell myself I'm going to read whatever I find on top, but inevitably it's something odd like an illustrated history of ancient medicine or a coverless paperback about Richard Nixon. And I still owe you a post about our closet doors, because that's been a real adventure! A post about the fact that Jack has so many more clothes and shoes than I do that I finally just let him take over the whole master bedroom closet.

Just to refresh your memory, when we bought the place it had two mirrored doors, right?

And then California Closets came and put in lots of shelves.

And then the new closet doors arrived. Jack ordered three smaller sliding doors instead of two large sliding doors, because, well, I don't know why -- because his aesthetic demanded it, by god.

But guess what? With three sliding doors, the drawers in the closet couldn't open! So we had to eat the doors, basically, in a manner of speaking which I'm sure you understand, Internet, and order two new big-old-size closet doors from the wonderful, wonderful Glendale Mills (you know what? They're really wonderful), and one Sunday afternoon while Jack was in Belgium a big, strong, friendly man delivered two massive closet doors that had been fabricated out of four smaller doors that were originally destined for a bomb shelter. Seriously, these doors must have lead cores, they weigh about 900 pounds each. Lance came over and tried to slide them open and he was all, Has the World's Strongest Man contest heard about these? Because they should add opening your closet as an event next year. As I do own a television and have been known to be interested in watching men pull freight cars with their teeth, I quickly grasped this turn in the conversation. So, yes, if you want to train for being able to carry a Volkswagen fifty feet, running, you can warm up by trying to open Jack's closet.

Here's another picture of the dog.

Can you see where the eye on the left has black eyelashes, and the one on the right (your right) has white eyelashes? That's all I've got left today, Internet, mismatched dog eyelashes.