Inside the Outside
You know how in love with my kid I am. As in love as every mother should be.
I have a billion pictures of him. I have friends who are amazing amateur and professional photographers, who take pictures of things, and places, and make art out of blue sky. I take pictures of my people. I just don’t care about looking at anything else.
Why look at a doorway when I could look at Thor?
It’s a truism that runs through all my photo albums. My photo album from Europe is almost exclusively of Renae and me standing in front of things. No artsy shots. Just us with wide, open-mouthed smiles. My wedding album? Exactly one photo that is not of faces. Who cares about pictures of cake? I wanted pictures of my new husband.
Look how much he has grown since October.
Those baseball pants? Same pants. According to the physical he had earlier this week, he has grown 4 inches in the past year. 4 inches. His shorts don’t even fit right anymore. Half of them look like he’s an NBA player from the 70s. (Dear NBA, Please pass along my thanks to whomever deserves them for getting the players into longer shorts. Those 70s era uniforms were harrowing. Sincerely, Lane) I took the training wheels off of Thor’s bike last night, and after about 30 minutes of false starts, he got it figured out. Granted, the bike did not grow the 4 inches he did, so it looks a bit like he is a Shriner on a tiny bicycle in a parade, but it’s a good start. He’ll be getting a real bike for his birthday this year. Meanwhile, I am scouring the sale lists for a cheap, used adult bike so I can ride with him to the park. No way I can keep up running along behind him now.
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