Well, friends: we live in grown-up town, now. When it's Saturday night and you've just finished putting to sleep your seven-month old and then cleaned up some diarrhea left on the bathroom floor by your dog, and when all you want to do is go to sleep because it's 9 o'clock already, dammit, which (in your grown-up mind) is pretty much bedtime and then you have to make the call about whether or not to take your dog to the emergency clinic because she's just started to vomit something that may or may not be blood, and when no one swoops in to help you clean up the poo or to make the food you promised to take to Easter brunch the next morning: well, then you live in grown-up town.
We've been here a while, really. Not much new. And it's not like we're pioneers, or something: we have a lot of friends who are long-time residents of grown-up town. Compared to them, we are novices: compared to a lot of people, our little trials might not seem to be in the grown-up town zipcode. But our weekend seemed pretty grown-up town to us. This morning, having moved Ada from the emergency vet to the regular vet and gotten Elliot dropped off at daycare, we were like: whew! We are the grown ups! The ones who take care of the creatures! That's us, there, doing the jobs.