The night we took a family walk, and got caught in a raging thunderstorm two miles away from our house, and came home soaked to the marrow of our bones--Yes, that night. I failed to mention that we also had to strip down to our (gasp!) birthday suits in the garage so as not to unnecessarily soak the carpet with our drip! drip! drips!
In an edenic state of "nekkidness," we tiptoed our way past open blinds in single file; me, Henry, then Nate. I know. Poor Henry! He had to walk with my my untanned, untoned derrier flabbily fixed in his gaze. While parading behind the aforementioned anatomical display, he said with exhuberant pride, "OH! MoM! You're a B-i-i-i-g B-o-o-o-y!"
And you're a funny boy, Mr. Willums. And when you laid your head against my chest last night after singing the "Pee-nit song, Again!" three times, and slipped soundly into comatose slumber, I thought the same thing about you that you said about me, and wondered how that transition from baby to big boy happened so quickly.
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