I’d love to tell you we’re all normal. About as much as I’d like to be eating a brownie right now. But sometimes the evidence is just the opposite.
This is my son with his classy forehead-bandaid, the one that stuck to his face for three days. And the one no one knew why it was there in the first place. Those are his homemade froggy pants, the ones I sewed a year ago. Ain’t nothin’ they don’t go with.
Some time ago when the weather was, say, warmer, this was our son in our plastic pool. Which may make one ask the hypothetical… What fun is laying in a plastic pool with water when you can lay in a plastic pool without water?
And this is our son with his burrito at Los Pinos. The joy runs deep.
Very deep.
Um…possibly a little too deep.
This is also our son in what may have been the best hiding spot in broad daylight.
And here he is again having just swallowed a penny. And now suddenly sure he shouldn’t have.
This is the condition of our butter most days. Fresh with chomp marks.
And this is the butter chomper. Sorry as they come.
And since I must tell you what I want you to believe, here it is: I think that underwear’s clean.
The truth, though… I really don’t know.
And words probably can’t touch this picture. Whatever my children are doing with their bottoms has compelled the dog to do something with his.
Moving, isnt’ it?
And to change the subject entirely… this is the only way to eat ice cream. Like you’re already in heaven.
Which I can imagine is the best place to be.
Followed not-so-closely by sitting in a brown chair with a pull-up on your head.
We be the Munsons.
And, sigh…that be our ‘normal.’
I had a dream about sleep. . . 