Monday, September 11, 2000:
There’s a new favourite part of the day at our house. Since the most recent of these room reformulations, we’ve been treated to a movingly grand entry, as Spence and Matt, Matt and Spence march up the stairs and into the kitchen together. They bring their blankets, sport conspiratorial half-smiles and enter like the heirs presumptive that they more or less are. Not only do they feel entitled to our admiration and acclaim, they are entitled. Even the increasingly complicated sisters can’t help but be charmed by the prospect. Do they wait for each other? Is their simultaneous dawning just spontaneous concord? This age, or rather these young ages, are matchless.