Our 7-year-old climbs into bed next to me, and I know I should get up. But he wants to make conversation, and I can never get enough of that.

Saturday starts as all Saturdays do, with children who bound out of bed before their parents do—a good sign since we were at the pediatrician’s office yesterday.

Our children are off today, so the morning starts with a sense of calm. There are no lunches to pack, no last-minute homework assignments to do, no field trip forms to forget.

I’m chronicling our daily lives on the blog this week in the Week in My Life challenge, so I could probably have given myself a break from 7 quick takes.

After decades of producing stories that go into a depth not found in some other outlets, and after many years managing newsrooms, editing pages and mentoring others, Joe Ryan is hanging up his red pen.

Morning comes quickly. As I get things ready for the day, I keep in mind that I will be at a work event late into the evening.

Richard Wilbur died last month. He was, Dana Gioia said, the finest poet of his generation and the greatest American Christian poet since Eliot. 

I’m up before the sons, which makes me think I have a jump on the day.

A stuffed cow and his owner crawl into my bed to wake me up, and I realize the morning is already getting away from us.

I’m chronicling our ordinary, but extraordinary, life every day this week. Here’s Monday.