Back to the grind, and by grinding, I mean tooth pain.

When I got home from San Antonio on Thursday, the boys swarmed me with questions about my trip and stories about what they did with Grandma for four days. Here they are showing me the Lego book they borrowed from the library while I unpack.

Salem joined us as well, probably trying to assess where I’d been and decide whether or not he approved of my absence.

The weekend was restful. We slept in, I knocked out a ten-mile run, and we watched a lot of football – of course, when I wasn’t writhing in tooth pain. This tooth has given up all hope of hanging on. It’s been drilled on and poked and now I think it’s split. I fear it will be replaced with a crown or tackled via root canal. My fears of the dentist are considerable, but the pain I feel from this wretched tooth is traveling up my right cheek and into my eye socket. I’m not kidding.

So I’m about to place a call and figure out when they can see me. Afterwards, you’ll probably hear a lot of crying.