We're Praying it doesn't come in threes for Daddy

Do not come near the Phillips house. We are infected.

I spent Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and most of Sunday sick. First I thought I had food poisoning from Tropical Smoothie Cafe. Then I got the fever. And not the Peggy Lee kind, the kind where you have the chills so bad you can't move except to keep calling your husband on his cell phone to have him bring you more blankets. And oh, while you are here, can you put socks on my feet, gloves on my hands, and take a picture of me for the blog? And can you hunt down a thermometer that hasn't been in our son's bum? No? Fine. Just wipe it off and I'll jab it in my armpit.

104.

I'm pretty sure that this is the highest fever I've ever had. And it was at this point I was certain that I didn't have food poisoning. So off to the doctor. Who then sent me to the hospital for fluids and to have a cat scan of my abdomen to rule out appendicitis.

The ad that states that there is no wait at St. Francis hospital is a lie. A BOLD FACED LIE. 7 hours later, no appendicitis. Just stomach flu, a bladder infection, and a mean timing for my endometriosis to put me in a lot of pain as well. Awesome. But the drugs were good. So good I thought the first two cups of contrast material tasted good. Nothing beats an IV drip to get that Diladin and Zofran into your system.

Saturday is a haze. Spent most of it in a Vicodin and Lomodal induced coma. Sunday I started to feel somewhat better. Until Henry puked on me. Right as I'd put him into my lap to discuss why we didn't color on the couch and leaned my head in to suggest we pray to Jesus to help us be obedient. Awesome.

But it was a good thing I spent most of the weekend asleep, as Henry needed every single inch of his little body to be touching mine at all times in order to be comfortable. I think he finally fell asleep between 5 and 8. Me, seeing as I had set of knees that kept jabbing my crotch and then a 102 temped body atop me, not so much.

And because Henry heard that we Phillips' like to double up on our illnesses--Henry has both the stomach flu AND a double ear infection. Awesome. Thankfully, they put him on an antibiotics that won't add to the poop soup.

But the kicker is, why is he still spry? I know he didn't get any sleep last night. Why isn't he the cuddly puny boy he was last night? One dose of motrin and Omnicef is all it takes and he's back to climbing the walls....

****Also, as a side note. Should you ever go to the ER with someone for a panic attack or a rapid heartbeat, I do not think the following is a good conversation to have. (Overheard through a curtain)

Man: I've told you not to be stressed out.
Woman: Groan.
Man: Well, you've just got to stop it. Right now. I mean it.
Woman: Groan.
Man: I know you are thinking about my heart surgery next week. That I might die. That you'll lose everything you've ever loved. Your hopes and dreams shattered. But you just can't think about it.
Woman: Groan.
Man: Just stop thinking about me dying. Stop thinking about it. Stop it, I said.

No More Shows

Henry is done.

Even if you say please, he will no longer show you where his nose is. Or where his ears are. If you ask him to, he simply squints, as if to say, "Woman! I ain't no circus monkey!" In his defense, I have long thought these to be some of his lessor skills and, in the long run, completely useless. Perhaps they are beneath him. He has taken to pointing to clocks and saying, "1,2,3,4,5" (Okay, it is really more like "One, Ooh, Eeh, Or, Ive" but still more impressive than the knowledge of where his freakin' ears are.)

I, on the other hand, am considering putting on shows. Not only will I be pointing to my various body parts (something I'm sort of an expert at), but I'll also be singing duets with my 16 year old nephew. We're awesome, I tell you, awesome. I'm a little bit country. He's a little bit rock and roll and our version of Aladdin's "A Whole New World" is the stuff grammys are made of.

52 Days!

This is the first picture we have of Henry. I can't be certain, but I think he is the one at the top left. Just a hunch, really--as I'm deeming that one the "cutest" embryo and that seems to me to be the closest thing to an educated guess as to which of these tiny buggers is my dirt chomper.

I just got off the phone with Valerie. Valerie is a nurse at my fertility doctor's office. It was the first time I've spoken to her in over two years. In fact, they've had to dig my file out of storage. Nice. She gave me a time table and reminded me of all the details that go into this infertility mess while I filled her in on my cervix and its incompetence.

This is what we are about to sink our teeth into--

1. In about four or five days, I am to call Susan.
2. Susan will then set me an appointment which should be roughly 10 days after she receives the call.
3. At said appointment, I will be checked, measured, and have a "trial transfer."
4. Approximately 14-15 days post appointment, I will begin again the blasted shots. Nightly doses of estrogen and progesterone in my heiny. The hormones will be in a sesame oil mixture and will have the consistency of mayonnaise, so they will take a long time to flow through the large gauge needle that is approximately four inches long. If it is anything like last time, Sloan (who does NOT like needles) will throw up after each injection he has to give me.
5. Upon beginning the shots, I will then have blood draws and ultrasounds roughly every three days.
6. Within a week of taking the shots, my heiny will be black and blue, despite icing it with frequency. And it will itch at the injection sites. Like crazy.
7. Approximately ten days after I begin the shots, a doctor will "thaw" out 2 of my 4 remaining frozen blastocysts. It is possible that no one makes the thaw. Very possible. In fact, likely.
8. The next day, with the advice of our beloved Dr. T, Sloan and I will decide whether to transfer only one or both of our babies, depending upon how well they make it through the thaw.
9. Exactly 11 days after the transfer, I will have a pregnancy test.

In case you weren't doing the math, I may or may not be pregnant in approximately 52 days. If that doesn't make you want to scream, pee in your pants, and throw a party all at the same time, you obviously haven't been paying attention.

Struggling with infertility this time around is completely different than it was in the past. Of course there is a sense that we already have a child. My arms are not empty. So yeah, there is some comfort in that. Henry also has this uncanny ability to suck all of my time and energy so that I don't sit around thinking of the baby I don't have.
Conversely, my longing for a second child is not just about my or Sloan's wanting. It is also a longing for Henry. To watch him be an older brother and have a lifelong camaraderie with a brother or a sister.
We're planning on getting Henry bunk beds this summer. I cannot wait until Sloan or I have to knock on Henry's door saying, "Boys, be quiet!" or "I'm going to make your sister go back to her room if it doesn't quiet down in there!" All the while ever so thankful for the memories they will be making in the bunks, hiding their flashlights under the sheets from Mom and Dad.
But what is most different about this time at the rodeo is my heart. The first time around, I was so heartbroken with grief that I was completely incapable of seeing what God was doing. I was bitter, irrational, crying pretty much non-stop, and just down right depressed. I remember telling Sloan I felt like Jessica McClure--that I'd fallen down a deep hole and was all alone. I could hear that there were others above me and were trying to help, but that I was still alone, in the dark, in the hole. (I think I felt alone because really, how many heads can one fit up one's own ass?)
I still have grief. I still get a little itchy when I think about how with just a word God could change all of this, and yet He chooses not to. And His choosing not to make it easy is because He loves Sloan and me. That for our family, infertility is what His love looks like. (In fact, I sometimes imagine I'm at a party and I get to scream this in Michelle Duggers' fertile-face. Why we're at the same party, I don't know, because I'm not known to frequent parties that don't play music or serve booze.)
What is different is that I am confident. Confident that God intends to enlarge our family. Maybe it will be in 9 months and 52 days. Maybe it will be in Round Three. Maybe it will be through adoption. But He will do it. And how He does it will be beautiful. Not pain-free, but beautiful. Glorious even.
And glorious? Well, now, that's something worth waiting for.

That's What the Lonely is For

This week my Bible Study was studying Mark 14:27-42. It's where Jesus predicts that Peter will betray him by the morning and then the anguish and prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. In the past, I've always seen this to be merely a view of Jesus in agony about his impending murder and yet his humble submission to it out of obedience and love. You know, an object lesson for me to suck it up and press on. And certainly it is about Jesus' perfect submission despite his humanity. But what struck me this time was the intense loneliness of Jesus.
Jesus tells his best friend that he'll betray him and Peter emphatically says "No! Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you." And Peter isn't lying to Jesus. He is earnest. And yet in a couple of hours when Jesus tells him that his "soul is overwhelmed to the point of death," Peter can't even manage to stay awake with his friend. Three times Jesus wakes Peter, James, and John up to keep watch and be with him and three times he finds himself alone in the dark surrounded by snoring.
He's all alone.
And He is aware that in a short time he will be sold out for money by a trusted friend, mocked, beaten, spit upon, murdered, and then horror of horrors--the sins of the world, the ENTIRE world, will be thrust upon Him. He will no longer be that which He has been since before time began. He will be forsaken. Cleft from the godhead for three miserable days. He goes from crying out "Abba" in the garden which is essentially crying "Daddy, Daddy"--a sign of his intimacy with God the Father--to proclaiming "My God, My God why have you forsaken me?" a question that shows only the formality and severity of their changed relationship.
I guess I'm struck by this because I know loneliness. I even know what it feels like to have one's soul be overwhelmed to the point of death. Literally--the point of death, as in on February 4, 2000 my loneliness put me in the hospital. And even now, I would say that I'm in a lonely state. No one warned me that while it is certainly full of laughter and joy, motherhood is a lonely place. Particularly if you are a stay-at-home mom. I feel like I'm trapped here with this foreigner who speaks in a series of clicks and whistles with no one to hear me crying out, no matter how loud I scream.
It's a joke here at the Phillips house when we're having a particularly bad day or are being misunderstood to say, "You know, Jesus had days like this." (This is particularly annoying when it is said to me by Sloan when I'm crying because he just doesn't "get" me and yet, it always seems to make me laugh which, in turn, only makes me madder because how dare he make me laugh when I'm yelling at him!) And yes, it is true that Jesus had days when the people he was loving ignored him. Or threw food at him. Or disappointed him. Or misunderstood him. Or that they had to put on more comfy pants before they could change that poopy diaper. (Okay, maybe that one's a stretch historically, but you get my picture.)
But what is NOT TRUE is that I've ever had days like Jesus. I've never been betrayed by someone dear to me. I've been lied to and a college boyfriend cheated on me, but to literally be sold out for murder--no, not so much. And I've never been forsaken.
To forsake is defined as "to give up something formerly held dear, to renounce, to abandon, to leave altogether." And certainly, I've never been forsaken by God. And yet, when I'm lonely, I feel that I am. I feel like no one else has even been misunderstood, unappreciated, ignored, unseen. And because I wrongly allow my emotions to be my barometer for truth, I say that I'm forsaken. I act forsaken. I believe lies.
Jesus' loneliness was based upon the reality that he was preparing to be all alone. My loneliness is a shadow. It is a reminder of the forsaken-ness Jesus took upon Himself for my sake. It is a reminder that my weakness is not the end of the story. It is an invitation to go deeper still because I will never have to be separated from my Father.
I will never have to cry out anything but Daddy.
And I needn't cry out very loud because He is closer than I think.

Nothing a bath can't cure

Now here's a craft for you. A woman in my Bible Study, upon receiving our Christmas card, painted this portrait of the pickle. Are you kidding me?

And totally unrelated, I am now considering re-entering the mother of the year contest. This morning, since it is finally sunny and warm, I took the pickle to the playground. And yes, a lot of the apparatus were still wet from the rain, but unless you're the Wicked Witch of the North, a little water never hurt anybody, right? So could someone please explain to me why I was the only mom allowing her son to go down the slides? And ride on the rocking turtle and dinosaur. And play in the sandbox. Sure--he got soaked. And dirty. D.I.R.T.Y. But it's only water and sand people! I even heard one mom tell her son not to run in the playground because the mulch was slippery. Geesh! I feel like I'm taking crazy pills.

My son is so going to be able to beat those kids up because he won't be a sissy, thank you very much.

Shooting for 2010

It's official. I'm out of the running for Mom of the Year in 2009. I'm entering my second year of motherhood, and I have yet to even be nominated. Argh. But for those of you who are wondering why I won't be Mom of the Year, let me give you some reasons.

(I should also point out that all of these things occurred within the last 24 hours. And to give you a bit more context, it should be noted that Henry has a sinus infection with a bear of a cough that causes him to cough up man-sized lugies.)

1. I took Henry to the grocery store despite the fact that he was covered in lugie and vomit. I simply wiped him off with a baby wipe, zipped up his raincoat, and prayed no one got close enough to us to smell him. After all, I had to pick up his Augmentin for the aforementioned infection.

2. The reason why he puked between the doctor's office and Kroger is because he choked on a dum dum. I knew he bit the end of the lollipop off, but I was barrelling down Robius Rd in the rain.

3. Once he threw up, I did finally pull over to check out the situation. I cleaned him up as best I could with wipes and paper towels. And then I left the pukey wad of paper in someones front yard on Winterfield. Sorry. (STOP JUDGING ME!!!)

4. We had to wait about 30 minutes at the pharmacy for his script to be filled. It was 5:45 at this time. We didn't leave Kroger until 6:20 or so. So, while standing in the check out line, I bought my son dinner. He had a bag of mini-ritz peanut butter sandwiches. (That's got protein and grains, right? I mean, it is better than a bag of Doritos.)

5. This morning, rather than stay home from Bible Study, I decided I would keep him with me. I did not want to give up my only chance for adult conversation all week. (Sloan is out of town until Thursday evening.) And I had the cutest Old Navy "Mom's Lucky Charm" shirt for him to wear. About halfway through his cheerios and nutrigrain bar, he starts coughing. But this doesn't stop him from shoving more food in his mouth. So, of course, he pukes it all up. Along with more snot. And it is all over the cute t-shirt, because I'd forgotten to give him a bib. Did I go and change his clothes? No. I took off his shirt, rinsed it in the sink, and then threw it in the dryer. Because, dang it!--he was going to wear that shirt.

6. We had to leave before the shirt was completely dry. So, after microwaving the t-shirt for two minutes, we had to go. I'm driving down 288 with the heat on full blast (so much so I had to crack my window), holding up the damp shirt to the vent. I'm thinking to myself, Gosh this is so stupid, and yet, I cannot stop myself. The knowledge of my own lunacy does not keep me from being an idiot.

7. My sweet boy got to hang with the ladies at Bible Study today--coloring and looking at books. In a damp shirt that had an odd orange tint to it. Happy Freakin' St. Patty's day.

The Host with the Most (and the future Mrs. Henry M. Phillips)

This weekend our good friends the Bizzells came down from Baltimore for a visit. Jackie is a sorority sister of mine and I'm hoping that maybe one day she'll be Henry's mother-in-law. Her 18 month old, Natalie, certainly brings out the best in Henry.

Normally, when playing with other children, Henry is quiet, a bit passive, and tends to just wander off on his own. But not with Natalie. He was very excited to show her all of his toys. And yes, he has now mastered the word "MINE!" but not in a way that seemed bratty or selfish, but as if to say, "Yeah, you can play with it. Just know that it is mine and it is not leaving this house."

He never once complained that he was relegated to the booster seat and she got his high chair. I think he was just so excited to wake up and find a friend. It upset his eating schedule a bit, which Natalie, in turn, took as a sign that she needed to eat for the both of them.

Miss Natalie strikes a pose. (Seriously, I had the camera, looked at her, and said, "Work it girl. Show me sexy." This is what I got. Watch out Cary, your daughter may be a handful. Thank goodness little Jackson will only be 20 months younger so he can protect her.)

Playing with the "wee". This is what Henry calls his indoor slide. It was built for his Daddy and Uncle Marshall by Grandpa Phillips over 35 years ago. We are very thankful for it and our Florida room because it gave the kids "outside" time despite the yuck-ola weather.

Even Sloan enjoys playing with the 'wee,' although we look forward to the day when we can rationalize buying a real Wii for our son.

At the start of the day, Natalie was a bit leery of the mechanics of safe 'wee'-ing. But by the afternoon, she was rocking it out without even a spotter.



Just chilling in Daddy's chair, eating goldfish, watching Thomas with my lady. Could there be anything better?

Yep. Taking my lady out for a spin.

Henry pushed Natalie around and around our house on his truck.

Craft #1--For Grayson Brock

Happy Birth-day, Grayson Ryan Brock! You are the (hopefully) proud recipient of craft #1.

Like Mother Like Son

I'm so proud of my bright little boy's love for books.

But maybe I should find him a little something more age appropriate.

Ah, now that's more like it. Nothing makes a Creative Writing major Mommy as proud as her son's love of Strunk and White's Elements of Style and a Thesaurus.

That 1% will get you every time

Transcript from phone conversation...

EJ: Well, when the cable guy leaves we've got to go to Target to pick up some onesies.

Sloan: Onesies?

EJ: Yeah, I posted this craft contest on my blog and I've...

Sloan: (sound that sounded like he was spitting out a drink) What?

EJ: (blushing) I posted this craft contest on my blog?

Sloan: A craft contest. On your blog.

EJ: Yeah, and I need to pick up some onesies so I can make...

Sloan: (laughing) I want to go back to this craft contest.

EJ: Yeah. What about it?

Sloan: I swear. 99% percent of the time you are the coolest person I know. But that other 1%--you're a dork. A big dork. D. O. R. K.

High Speed My Fanny

I just spent 4 hours waiting on the cable guy for him to come to my house and say, "Oh. You already have an HD DVR. There's nothing you need from me. Ha!"

Well, can I get my four hours back?

I was planning on going to the gym today, but took my shower already while waiting for you and everybody knows that I'm incapable of bathing twice in one day!

And the winners are...

Okay, so I said I would only make 5 crafts. But I do so love crafting and am having fun coming up with different things for different people. But I'm heading to bed tonight and already have 8 people on deck so I'm closing it up. With Sloan traveling a lot for work, crafts give me something to do while watching TV so I may be posting this offer again soon.

Also, for some of you I will need addresses and such--but the craft winners are: Meg Jokinen, Jenny Riggs, Lindsey Jay, Mary Vollono Riley, ET Stevens, Jenn Warren, Jenny Brock (and maybe a little something for baby Grayson that is coming on Friday!), and Magda in Austin.

Everyone is going to get something different and I'm doing them in the order in which I received the requests. (Except I may jump ahead and do the Brock's gifts out of order as the bambino arrives soon.)

Meg, you're up first. The only hint you are getting is that I literally laughed so hard I peed in my pants tonight when I began it. Which is fitting, because I'm pretty sure wetting myself was par for the course when we hung out. It may also take some rooting around for some photos and videos at my parents house, because nothing makes a craft greater than us peeing in our pants on film while singing karaoke at Disney world.

Get your craft on

Below is copied from my dear friend Kristen's blog. It just stinks big time that I missed getting in on some of her crafty goodness because that girl has mad sewing skills. But I'm pretty crafty myself, so here ya go...

I love making stuff, so the first five people to respond to this post (from here or on facebook) will get something made by me.

This offer does have some restrictions so please read carefully:*

• I make no guarantees that you will like what I make.
• What I create will be just for YOU.
• It will be done this year (2009).
• It will be something made in the real world and not something over the internet.
• It might be a mix CD, a knitted scarf, a quilted potholder, poem, baked goods, an original photograph, a poem or a photograph of a poem about baked goods and quilted potholders…who knows! There are other things it might be too, but I promise whatever it is, it will be made for YOU and with YOU in mind!

On Kristen's blog, she also said that in return, all you need to do is post this on your blog or facebook and make 5 things for 5 other people. But I am going to require none of this--because I think it is much harder to be meek and simply say thank you. And it is lent, a time when we reflect on our inability to pay God back for all that has been done for us in Jesus' death and resurrection. So my challenge is that you cannot pay it forward. You must simply say thank you.

*Void where prohibited, use only as directed, for a limited time only, store in a cool dry place.

What a difference 40 degrees can make

The snow is gone. It is 75 degrees outside with no pollen (yet). And I've begun to shave my legs on a regular basis. Good times. Gigi and Papa (my parents) came in town this weekend to see my niece and nephew in CYT's production of Narnia. If you are in a town with a CYT, take your kids to see their shows. They are toddler friendly and inexpensive. We also spent mad amounts of time outside. And once again, we are having to strip the pickle down on the front porch. Not for snow, but from massive amounts of dirt and sand.

We just love the ramps at the playground at Huguenot Park. Gotta love those handicapped playgrounds that are so toddler friendly.
Jailhouse kisses are the best.

The two great loves of my life. Dressed alike for church because nothing says "Welcome spring!" like loafers and seersucker.

Henry also enjoys "helping" with the yard work.

"Helping" daddy put the tarp away. Much more fun than the sled because a) he is not in a suit that is so puffy he can't move in, and b) when he rolls off it isn't freezing.

"Helping" Mommy with the rocks. I'm pretty sure we live in a quarry. No matter how many rocks I rake up and put into the wheelbarrow, there were still bunches. It didn't help that for every load of rocks I put in, Henry tossed rocks outs.

In case you were distracted by the giant bugger in his nose in the previous picture, that's right, I have my son sitting in a wheelbarrow full of rocks and dirt. It's probably good that we have a son.

Too bad Mommy spent an hour raking rocks. Henry dumped them all out in under a minute.

Free to be You and Me

I loved the soundtrack to Marlo Thomas' "Free to be You and Me" as a child. I could perform the entire "Ladies First" skit by myself and did so ad nauseum. As an adult, I still hold fond memories for the play, book, and music--I do love anything with Alan Alda--yet I'm logical enough to see that it was written with a clear feminist agenda. Not as much propaganda as the movie Happy Feet, but inching close to it. That being said, I'm pretty sure I never would've understood that parents are people, people with children, had it not been for the crooning of Marlo Thomas and Harry Belafonte.
And so it should come as no surprise to anyone who knows the words to "William wants a Doll" that I decided to buy my son a doll. I saw him pretending to feed one at the doctor's office and my heart melted. I'm sure that my father-in-law will be upset, but I'll appeal to the "training him to be a daddy" truth that is little boys having baby dolls. I'm also planning on using it to help teach the little guy names of body parts and how to dress. (Do these rationalizations seem to work?)

However, as cool and hip as I am with my son playing with a baby doll, there were some parameters I put upon the doll when I went shopping. I wanted a doll that was: a)not creepy looking, b) not black (I'm not racist, but seriously, if I'm going for him seeing this baby as an extension of himself, a black baby really doesn't help), and c) not dressed in pink.

Let me tell you people, there are not many baby dolls that meet these criteria. Remember those dolls you had as a kid that had the crazy eyes that wobbled around? You know the one that you said, "I don't like that dollie. She gave me the stink eye in art class yesterday." But really no, that's just the way she looks.

The doll aisle at both Target and Toys R Us is the creepiest aisle in the place. The following is what I had to work with--

The cabbage patch kid. Wrong in all three categories. Super high creep factor.

This one was a contender. But he talks. Two languages. And he needs a haircut. And oh yeah, one of his phrases is, "I love you, Mommy."

I really liked this one. His name is Josh. He costs $60. So I added a fourth criteria--must not cost more than $20.

The "Baby Born" swim doll. Yes, it is a boy. But he's half naked. I know the doll will end up naked, but seriously, I think the doll should come clothed. Super high creep factor.

So what did we end up with?

The Real Water Baby.

Except Henry's baby is wearing blue and came with a bottle and a teddy bear. Henry enjoys feeding him the bottle and dragging him around by his foot. The baby also was hurled across the room several times. I am attempting to teach Henry to cuddle the baby, but the closest he's come is to smother it with a ball. I'll attempt to get some pictures of Henry with his baby, but I'm guessing that it will not replace trains as his favorite toy anytime soon.

It's Safe to Drive in this stuff... Right?

The only trouble is these mittens don't make the best of driving gloves. And my feet are so big that I get stuck. Or maybe I'll just commandeer a ship. Move over Kenneth Branagh--I make a better a Sir Shackelton any day. No icebergs in sight.

Maybe I'll just have one of my minions (ie Mommy) pull me around all afternoon.

Or maybe not. She seems unaware that I've fallen off the back of this thing.

Perhaps I'll just chill in my fort. It's just so cold when I try to climb up to get to the slide.

Nah. Rocking on the porch swing with Daddy is my favorite.

And since we've no place to go...

Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!

Holy freakin' snowblowers, Batman! We woke up to about 10 inches of snow. I'm super excited and even made pancakes from scratch (seeing as we have no bisquick) to celebrate the occasion. Sloan, being from southeastern PA, does not see the beauty of it. He only sees a driveway that needs to be shoveled.

Yummo. Henry says he loves snow days because Mommy lets him stay in his pjs, makes pancakes, and even gives him chocolate milk. Too bad Daddy says snowdays are for sleeping in, especially when you work from home and there are no snow related traffic problems on the stairs to the third floor. I guess Henry won't be playing in his outdoor (ie so crusted with mud they aren't allowed indoors) tennis shoes. It's a good thing Gigi bought him some giant Napolean Dynamite snow boots!Please note that my son is holding a tube of Vaseline. This explains the sheen on his face. The layers--onesie, one pair of long john pajamas, socks, fleece footy pajamas, and then the uber-warm bunting from cousin William. Thank God Henry's Aunt is Canadian and they gear up for cold weather! Of course, it wasn't until Henry was all bundled up that he decided to take his morning constitutional. I figured it could just keep him warm when he played because I wasn't going to redress him.

Daddy and Henry walk in the snow.

Henry walks back to Daddy to try to figure out what Sloan is rigging up with his toy bucket and the old dog leash. This is what happens when you live where it rarely snows. You have to fashion a sled out of what you have. Gigi and Papa are coming this weekend to see Anderson and Rachel in their play, Narnia. How much you want to bet they bring Henry a sled? Thereby guaranteeing it will never snow in Richmond again.
But Henry likes it nonetheless. We have since borrowed an old school wooden sled from the neighbors whose 15 yr old son I just saw whizzing by on a boogie board.

I like this stuff Mommy. But you might want to consider getting me some gloves. And what was this rumor I heard about hot chocolate? And the movie Cars? And we might get to make more play dough? AWESOME!!!