Justin went back to work Thursday. (Less than one week after the surgery.)
I'm trying to drum up legal stories for my new freelancing job.
And J.J. has a new favorite game called, "Tear it up, man." He crawls around the house, pulling all the books off the shelf, throwing handfuls of dirt from the plants on the floor, ripping apart People magazine before I read it, trying to eat the boys' finger paint. I'm sure you're all familiar with this game. He crawls around and rests on his knuckles as he plans his attack. Justin says he looks like a little gorilla.
Johnny, meanwhile, looks like a prize fighter after falling on his nose at my mom's party.
"I look so wierd," he cried when he looked in the mirror the next day. But now he has forgotten about it.
In parking lots, people look at him and then glare at me. It reminds me of when I was pregnant and drinking rootbeer out of a brown bottle at an art festival. People shook their heads at me as if to say, "Fie, Fie on you," and I'd look at Justin and say, "This rootbeer is delicious."
Only now I know that it takes a village to make you feel guilty for how you raise your child. So I don't worry so much.
This morning the boys have their cousins over after a sleepover and we're getting ready for our sixth consecutive party this weekend, this time at a dairy farm, so I can't write a real blog, just one to tell you why I haven't written lately. I have lots to catch up on starting tomorrow.