This past week was busier than usual because of Edmond's baptism and confirmation (that's right, infant confirmation, that's how Maronites do it), and the visitors it brought to town. It's such a blessing to have my family here; I hate to miss a minute of it. But even beyond the unusual circumstances, I've been having difficulties lately finding the time to blog.
The two year old just figured out how to get out of her crib, and nap time has become a war. Not to mention that she is potty training, which is great, great, great, but I find myself only narrowly denying the urge to slather all bathroom surfaces with hand "sansitizer" after her every visit (let's just say things can get... messy).
And there is nowhere to "send" the three and five year olds. They need to run, they need to skip, they need to yell. But it is so frigid outside. Their energy is finding its outlet in what D calls "play fighting," which is about one fistful of hair or eye jab away from being as real as Camden. In attempts to preclude such a fate, I'm the only one who is finding an outlet for yelling.
And at night, I just want to relax with my husband and hold my sweet baby. I mean Edmond, my infant. Not that I don't want to hold my husband, it's just that I want you to be clear that "my sweet baby" isn't his pet name.
Will things change? Yes, they always do. But for now you get a pictorial quick takes.
|Brothers. Always in motion.|
|There was a little girl / who had a little curl / right in the middle of her forehead... Longfellow got it right.|
|A favorite corner.|
|Papaw and friend.|
|Papaw and other friends.|
|Dressing festive to greet our weekend guests.|
|H says this is her greatest masterpiece. And I say, "I love it, Chagall."|