Our carefully orchestrated walk to the park was almost cut short today due to a string on Eli's sandals. The string, like any blade of grass, threatened to ruin a good moment until I tucked it out of Eli's sight. The boy is offended and unraveled by anything out of the ordinary in the feet region. Not so long ago I thought finger and toe painting outside on a sheet would be fun because it is fun unless you're Eli and said paint is as unwelcome as Maltsby's thick, hot breath. My firstborn, he is not mellow. He does force me to keep the floor free of dirt or else he'd spend the day pitching fits over the crumbs lodged between each toe.
And doesn't it say something that among the handful of words that Eli deems important enough to say BROOM is high on the list?
As for Henry, all is well. He's survived eight weeks with only minor head wounds inflicted on him by an overly loving brother. A brother who breastfeeds Elmo just to prove to me that if I would give him a damn chance he could feed Henry as well as I do.
Get an eyeful of edition two.