I went to war this weekend against our basement playroom, armed with little more than a new EXPEDIT bookcase and a half dozen BRANÄS baskets. Plus some thumbtacks and zero reservations about throwing my children's toys out while they slept. Sorry, kids! All your torn stuffed animals and deflated balls and Crappy Meal toys wandered out into the street and got hit by cars. You probably should have stayed awake to keep an eye on them.
Pictures of that (thrilling) finished project to come. For today, this is the best my soupy brain can do:
He's 17 months old today.
Some days, though.
SOME DAYS. CHOMP. GRR. NOM.
When he's thirsty, he drags his index finger from his mouth to his chin. When he's REALLY thirsty, he does the same sign, only he starts at his forehead.
When he does something naughty, he wags his finger at me and says "NO NO NO." Just so I know that he knows. He's not stopping, or anything, but he knows.
He likes to watch the mailman drive away and blow kisses after the truck. (Which he calls a Beep Beep, for the record.)
He loves to play hide-and-seek with Noah, though he always chooses the same hiding place: in a not-at-a-all concealed corner next to a kitchen cabinet, with his hands over his eyes.
He's got a tremendously fiery little temper, switching from joy to tears in seconds, whenever he feels that his will has been thwarted. And it gets thwarted a lot, since he really has no idea that he is only 17 months old, and isn't allowed to do everything his big brother does or open the refrigerator to prepare his own scrambled eggs, and that there's a bit more to walking down the stairs than simply approaching the top step and hurling oneself off of it.
He gets over it just as quickly, though.
And immediately moves on to the next thing he's not supposed to do or touch or have or eat, maybe with a really big hug and slobbery kiss sandwiched in there somewhere. So wonderfully delicious, this boy.