Yesterday Henry scaled the mountain of miniature clothes he’s outgrown, and planted a flag at the top.
He wasn’t a kid with twenty different outfits to choose from, either. We didn’t buy much. It just accumulated.
I thought I’d be sadder as I packed it all away. Ski-jump nose aside, there is no resemblance between the tiny, scrunched up baby that arrived in our house thirteen months ago and the strawberry-haired, pudgy-kneed little cannonball that now lives here. These days, he does stuff like this.
He is a boy that only believes in doing something if there’s a possibility of head injury doing it. (He is shaking that back rest to make the car move, by the way. Quite violently.)
I flipping love it.
I think I may be a toddler person.
