It was a week. A week of thrills. A week of wonder.

For example, I had breakfast with a feminist. My favorite feminist. We talked about life and books and whether pickles belong on soft-boiled eggs. (Spoiler alert: They do.)

What else? Oh my. So much. After entering every day for two years, my favorite feminist won the Hamilton lottery. A trip to Providence was hastily arranged. Joy flowed from deep within my children’s souls.

Not all of my children’s souls. One of my children was required to stay home because of chronic intransigence. As a consolation prize, I fed him peanut butter and jelly. Which he insisted on eating with a spoon. Once the jelly was removed, he protested. With unrelenting bitterness.

Two of my children were in a play. In the play, Kato played a bulldozer. I don’t know how one continues aspiring in the wake of such thrilling accomplishment.

Unless it’s regressing to a life of crime. Setting traps for unsuspecting writers who happen to be one’s father.

What else? What else? We found three eggs in the branches of the bush outside.

We had smoothies and sudden mustaches.

I was sent to the store to get the right kind of mustard but instead got the wrong kind of mustard.

I went back to the store to get the right kind of mustard.

We reviewed the printer proofs for our sort-of-soon-to-be-published book Wonder Undercover, the third book of The Real McCoys series.

And here is a fancy digital mock-up of the book in question. In Wonder Undercover, our heroine Moxie McCoy is hired by her sworn nemesis to investigate the vile misdeeds of her other sworn nemesis while grudgingly helping her little brother Milton investigate a mysterious burglary. Along the way, Moxie becomes a bit of a feminist (but does not, to my knowledge, put pickles on her soft-boiled eggs.

It was created in collaboration with our smart and talented friends at Imprint, which is part of Macmillan, which kind of rhymes with ‘just chillin.’

The second-most-thrilling moment of the week might have been when our friend Beth gave Robbi a hand-me down dress-like outfit thing.

It was, apparently, a hand-me down from a twelve year old. Robbi didn’t know how to feel about that.

The most exciting moment was when our friend Beth gave Kato a Batman shirt that was a hand-me-down from a seven year old.

But it was just too wonderful. And fit me perfectly. And so I intercepted it.

In conclusion, you sometimes win the lottery, whether having friends who give you hand-me-downs, finally getting to see Hamilton, or marrying a feminist with extremely precise opinions about mustard.