For Adriane

A big red button, just for you.  Because I love you so.

Get your own here

Seriously amazing

This past weekend was pretty much one of the best weekends ever.  I got to go to New York for the first time, meet my homegirl Krystyn for the first time, and meet my co-workers, also, for the first time.  It was a very short trip (left Friday, came back Saturday) but Krystyn managed to pack as much stuff in as possible. 

Up until, like, yesterday I was still recovering from the trip.  My legs, they were tired.  All that walking and the stairs to and from the subway took a toll on my hefty West Virginia ass, but it was so beyond worth it.  The minute I got home the whole thing seemed surreal (did I really go to New York?  for reals?) so I'm glad I got proof.

Hans Christian Andersen she is not

Charlie tells stories all the time.  ALL. THE. TIME.  They're really... interesting.  I took the liberty of transcribing one of her stories this evening, so you can get an idea of, well, you know.  All the crazy.

Once upon a time there was a little fairy, and the ghosties were trying to take my books.  They tried to take me, and then I ran away from the ghosties, and then they tried to take my ball.  And then, they tried to take the fairy, like, big huge fairy.  And then they took my hair out of my head.  And then they shaved my hair.  And then they put something else on me.  And then they took my pink computer, but I snapped at them, with my computer, but they died, and then I killed them.  And then, um, then, I did my letters.  And then they tried to take my letters.  But I actually took them away from my letters.  And then that's all.  Now I'm going to tell you my other story.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Phoebe H9, and then Phoebe was falling asleep, and then I looked for the eyeshadow, and then I looked for the wall, and for my hair, and for my head.  And then I looked for my computer, where they took them, and my letters, where they took them.  And then I looked for my coffee drink, and my fire, but they put it in there, with your fire (pointing to the woodstove).

At this point I ask her to hang on (since she's rattling on and on, and I'm typing this as she's telling it), and she says:

You know, mom?  I'm not going to tell you any more stories.  You're just going to work.

I know, right?  The child is clearly gifted.