So I was going to write about Sparklecorn today and how it all went down. Picture nine straight hours of rolling anxiety attacks...several honest-to-God crying jags alongside the ladies of the CheeseburgHer party... the prospect of partying in the equivalent of a flourescent-lit produce aisle at Wal-Mart...begging for decorating help via text, email, Twitter, a bullhorn on Times Square...a cake that got stuck in traffic...missing keys to electrical boxes...getting personally singled out and screamed at by the first irate party guest who walked in the door (because we started late) and crying again because oh my God I'm all sore muscles and exposed nerve endings, stop yelling at me, YOU KNOW THE USUAL.
But then I looked at the first batch of photos and all that bullshit up and fell right out of my brain. I can barely remember a minute of it now. You guys are just that pretty, I guess.
This bullshit, on the other hand:
I don't know what this child ate while we were away, but look at him. Standing there, reorganizing the spice rack. On his LEGS.
BOY LEGS. With kneecaps and shit, instead of gnocchi-chub-pillows.
He's walking everywhere now, officially, picking up more and more speed by the minute. Talking too, or at least trying to. "Eat? Buh? Eh? Cat? Meh? Yite? Gog?"
If you guess incorrectly at what he's trying to say he will give you a withering look and sigh. "Hmmphf" apparently translates to "I pity your feeble brain, but I believe I asked for some Cheerios. Chop chop."
(Though I'm getting pretty good at understanding this age: today I asked him if he was crying because he tried to taste an antibacterial wipe he found in my purse. He tried to deny it for awhile but I knew the truth.)
At least he still looks a couple years younger than Noah, right? Who is all, suddenly, six-going-on-12.
And Ezra is three-going-on-what-the-hell, weren't YOU just a baby five minutes ago?
Sigh. It's never going to stop, is it?
(I don't know who is more underwhelmed by that thought, me or Ike. MO-O-OOM!)