Because I cannot DEAL with writing sentences yet. With the verbs and subjects and participles and shit. I may no longer be at the beach, but in my mind, I am still on vacation. Except for the housework and the Advice Smackdown and the Clubbing of Moms and the full-time job of keeping Noah from sucking on various household items, from the dog food to the mail to the business end of a USB cable. Yes. Other than all of that I am still totally on vacation.
(At just barely nine months old, he's standing unassisted now. UN. ASS. ISTED. I could pretty much die from the pride/horror/sunrise/sunset-ness of it all.)
Anyway. Here are photos from the beach. (More will be over at Flickr in a bit.) (Except for the ones Jason took of me walking away from our blanket and down to the water. Those photos are going to be destroyed, right after I stop crying about them and finish this pint of ice cream.)
More sand eating. Tracey told me to prepare for Noah eating a lot of sand, and while I laughed and pretended to be all down with the sand-eating knowledge, secretly I was all, "Bwah?" Because it honestly never occurred to me that Noah would eat sand, like repeatedly, all damn day, nor was I expecting him to poop sand for days afterwards, although you have to admit that telling someone to "GO POOP SAND" is a really good child-friendly alternative to "GO FUCK YOURSELF." Especially for people who get knocked over by waves a lot. Big waves that totally nail you out of nowhere, just to wound your pride and your elbows, and to deposit about three pounds of sand into your bathing suit.
Especially for people who get knocked over by waves a lot. Big waves that totally nail you out of nowhere, just to wound your pride and your elbows, and to deposit about three pounds of sand into your bathing suit.