It's Late and I'm Pretty Sure I've Lost My Mind: Ruminations from What Appear to Be the Darkest Recesses of My Brain

Everyone knows the old adage about a picture being worth a thousand words but I wonder if the reverse is also true? Is a thousand words (give or take) also worth a picture? If so, I owe you some pictures. Stat.

I haven't really been taking all that many pictures here lately, since most of them look like this:

But when you happen to be the very cutest baby ever born, you can get away with it. Seriously, we've become those parents. You know, the ones who sit around saying, "I really can't believe how cute she is. How did we have such a cute baby?" I know, cute baby, blah blah blah, every parent is thinking the same thing right now: Sure she's cute but not as cute as mine. 

I mean, really. Look at that face. Two-dimensional pictures just don't do it justice. Nor do they squeal and blow raspberries the same way she does. (Or at all, I guess.)



It's crazy that she's already 11 months old, isn't it? It's also crazy that most of her clothing is for a baby half her age. She obviously dipped pretty heavily into my side of the gene pool size wise. She was advanced even as a fetus. (Boring alert: there is nothing more boring to me than hearing/seeing/reading someone brag about something kind of mundane that their kids did or said, so I just bored myself. [Some bragging is justified of course, like getting into MIT or inventing Spanx or forming a wildly successful boy band, among various other noble and/or courageous acts and deeds.])



This picture doesn't really look like her, maybe in part because you can finally see her two little teeth that have taken their sweet-ass time coming. (See also: top teeth in beginning stages of poking through as well, restless nights and shortened naps.)

Don't let Will's innocent expression fool you. He and Mr. Bear were probably planning a bank heist or something. Mr. Bear was apparently going to either hit the slopes or spend some quality time in his wood shop making cabinets after the heist.



Laura's hair here (she had baby food on her hands and pulled her dirty hands through her hair, resulting in this 'do) reminds me of the scene in Tommy Boy (which, kind of sadly, I can quote from at length) where Chris Farley is losing it in a potential client's office and pulls his hair which also results in his hair sticking up like a madman.



Sometimes it's surprising to me how much they really like each other.

Laura is often surprised at the force of Will's love, too. Rightly so.

Another day, another bruise from another head wound (Will, not Laura).

There is a reason that this picture shows the sink bathed in an ethereal, heavenly light. It is a miraculous event. I almost didn't want to take a picture so I didn't startle him into realizing what he was doing, kind of like when we stay out of Will's way when he's happily occupied with something that isn't sharp, toxic, or too obnoxiously loud.

This is the same man who places items that are supposed to go in the trash can on the counter directly on top of the trash can, mind you, so this was quite the event. (Obviously I'm kidding, but not about the trash on the counter bit. He really does help out around the house, so long as it's not something he classifies as "woman's work." Again, I'm kidding. He's only slightly misogynistic at times, depending on the current phase of the moon and other variables too minute to be named.)

I just reread the previous paragraph and realized that I've apparently become partially insane. (Charlie Sheen just called and he wants his crazy back.) I blame it on the fact that it's 10:08 and I'm still awake. Yes, I'm that boring.

Further proof that I'm that boring, besides getting overly excited about Jamison washing dishes (and even documenting it for posterity with pictures and also with my little diatribe above): recently telling Will that I was totally jealous of the neighbors' new recycling bins (and him asking repeatedly why); also, staying up until almost 11 last night to finish knitting Will's new hat.

I'll try to come up with something a little more coherent here soon. Maybe even something that refrains from mentioning Tommy Boy, Spanx, boy bands and Charlie Sheen. With all of those things, this only had one direction it could have gone...

Edited to add: My copy editor/husband would like for me to make clear that he never uses the phrase "woman's work" except in jest. He also said to include something that alludes to him being the best husband ever. And that he makes sure to at least rinse all of his dirty dishes to make my life a little easier and sometimes he loads or unloads the dishwasher. The refuse on the counter, though, is 100% fact. It doesn't rinse itself into the trash receptacle.