July 6. We fly back to New York tomorrow. First rain here. My son has a cough, so we’re not even going swimming anymore. The departure feels premature, rushed, perplexed. It’s the way it is, I suppose.

July 5, Universal Studios. My daughter and I did the Hulk and the Velocicoaster. Both only once. Partly because all the rides were suspended for several hours due to thunderstorms, but also because her brother wasn’t feeling well and J certainly wasn’t either. I was glad for this respect they all had for each other.

I took tranquilizers for both the Hulk and the Velocicoaster. How much those did, I don’t know, but I certainly felt more able to understand the coasters as an arrangement instead of being in constant fear of death. A symphony on the amygdala.

July 4. Sparklers and unexpected hugs.

July 3. The kids are making incredible progress in swimming and diving. Much better legwork, it really has clicked for them. My son can let himself sink to the bottom of the six foot pool and sit there cross-legged for a few seconds in complete control. Even equalizing his ear pressure.

Two days ago, I wanted to show him that I could dive the length of the entire pool. But there are no markings on the bottom and there is no edge between the bottom and the wall, just a curve, so I couldn’t see the wall. In the middle of a stroke, my head hit the wall, got thrown back, and I heard my neck bones crunch. That was close to me not getting out of that pool again at all. Now just a laceration on my forehead and a cut in the bridge of my nose.

Kennedy Space Center. Once again I’d forgotten that American museums are basically playgrounds. Best moment: a pathos-rich movie about the development of the space shuttle, ending with a shot of the Atlantis flying at an angle toward the camera. Then, with a jerk, the screen is pulled away and behind it hangs the real Atlantis in space in exactly the same position. Even J gets wet eyes.

July 2. Slowly we get used to the rhythm. The most important decision of the day: pool or beach. If possible, nothing else.

July 1. We got involved with forces that I completely underestimated. Or maybe I didn’t underestimate them, but overestimated myself. I can engage with anything, I can endure anything. That’s what I pompously promised. And yesterday it was over already.

Launch of a Falcon 9 from Launch Complex 39 A. We see this from a distance of 14 miles. The fire tail is small, but unreal bright.

June 30.

June 29. To Florida.

June 28. Daughter meets friends from the past, at Pain Quotidien. Tried out the image-stabilizing binoculars on the roof terrace with my son. Pizza night. Packing for Florida. – First stress test for us as a couple comes and goes, resolved while sitting on the bed, with the bedroom door shut.

June 27. We all sleep till eleven. At three we go to the Museum of Natural History, at seven to the Baylander. Many many selfies.