Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Separated at Birth
This boy CONSTANTLY smells his fingers. Con.Stant.Ly.
He washes his hands. He smells them.
He picks something up. He smells them.
He walks into a room. He smells them.
Of course, my mother informed me that I did the same thing.
I'm a mom of three peeps ... Queen Bee, The Door Man, and the Chandelier Monkey, and wife to Ace, the Helpful Hardware Man. I created this space to get away from the people known as my inlaws, and because life with three kids and a hubby is all Unexplored Territory.
The nine-year-old who seems to be growing older every minute, has an opinion and a comment for everything, and has a true servant's heart.
The seven-year-old who loves the organization of things, will someday be someone's therapist because of his kind soul, and will more than likely be living with us until he is 40 years old.
The five-year-old with the 13-year-old attitude, who has a dictator's personality, asks you to watch her all the time and say "hold on" to keep your attention, and will someday come home on the back of some dude's motorcycle with 10 tatts and a body piercing or two.
The man of the house, the fixer of things, the winner of prizes, and the only person in his family to escape the South.
Starring ... the Lip Gloss Girl
In sleep he sang to me...
Do you make them?
Winding down the weekend/ramblings
Do you know me?
I love carrots
ob·ses·sion - noun - 1. the domination of one's th...
Baby Jane says...