A bog, yes, that's what I was/am in, wallowing. I decided that my nostalgic piece about my 62nd wedding anniversary was, indeed, a bleat, not a blog. I was being maudlin and self-pitying, also egotistic.
My kids, on the other hand, and their kids, are wonderful. The reunion, still going on, has been loving and salutary. It's so good to see cousins be friends. Did anyone else read Louisa May Alcott's book, Eight Cousins and the sequel, Rose in Bloom? I liked the cousins book better than Little Women. I love the idea of cousins. Maybe it's the Icelandic gene; everyone in Iceland is a cousin, whether first or second or third, fourth, fifth or more removed. It's quite comforting. It reminds me of Kurt Vonnegut's book, Slapstick. The protagonist, if he is one, runs for president on the campaign, "Lonesome No More." When he wins he assigns everyone a category to be related to, like a Tulip or a Daffodil, or something. Suddenly people have relatives, and they discover to their pleasure that they have a lot in common with their arbitrarily assigned kin. Thus, they are lonesome no more. We may not be brothers or sisters under the skin but we are all, certainly, cousins, however remote.
As I say, comforting.