Dear MadDog,

I don't know any other way to say this other than to come right out and say it.

I want a separation.

All eyes are on Beijing right now, as the finest and fastest and strongest seek to dazzle an entire world with their exploits. There is pageantry, there is history, there is peace on earth, good will to men.

It is a beautiful sight to behold.

But I would submit that there is an equally challenging Olympics of sorts, being played out in minivans all over this great nation. In our family, it's an event my husband has always called "The Mommy Olympics."

Dan's sister had the nerve to get married.  Even more jerkishly, she invited us to attend the wedding. Laylee's job was to dress as a bridesmaid or "mini-bride" as she calls it. My job was to procrastinate making her insanely elaborate bridesmaid's dress until well past the last possible second.

Leading up to the wedding, we were all sick and dying which inflamed my usual tendency for procrastination into a full-blown disease. I was too sick to sew. The kids were too sick for me to sew. They needed me to watch them blow their noses while rubbing Vicks all over them. It was too rainy to sew. Then the weather was too nice for us to be cooped up inside.

1. Saturday morning, run around packing for visit with relatives.

2. Toss bags by door. Look like you are going camping for a week (in reality: one day).

3. Pack whole family into car, half an hour later than planned. (Silently praise yourself and spouse for record time.)

4. Spend lovely day with relatives. Let kids suck energy out of them while you can.

5. After visit, pack kids back into car with belongings, which seem to have multiplied at relatives' house.

6. On way home, listen to Bean complain about aching belly — a common event; belly tends to miraculously self-heal at mere mention of food she likes. Tell her blithely: "We're almost home."

7. Hear Bean begin to cry. Feel first pangs of guilt and worry. Reassure her with more sympathy: "We're almost home."

When I was just a boy in Pennsylvania, I looked for certain familiar signs that foretold the arrival of summer: a robin in the yard, green shoots pushing through the soil, the swirling ceiling fan in my bedroom...(By the way, all those things do is move the hot air rapidly around the room, essentially converting your home into a giant convection oven).

Now that I'm a parent, I notice the change in season by other means.

The first sign of summer, parent-style, arrived while I was at work last week. My phone rang. I heard my wife’s voice on the line and, behind that, a sound that I couldn't quite identify. It was far away, but steady.

"Hello," I said.

"Your daughter needs you," my wife said.

"Okay," I said. There was a momentary rustling on the other end, and the unusual sound suddenly grew louder. By the time Grace spoke, I recognized it as her own wailing.

"Daddy?" she said, catching her breath.

"Yes, honey? What's the matter?"