Charles is hoping for a spot on the Seahawks’ roster:
The neighborhood kids enjoy dogpiling on our front lawn, especially when Tony is in the mix (I think because he throws them around – at one point he had a kid hanging from each arm and was spinning).
And this is what happened on Father’s Day:
The boys slept in, I made blueberry banana pancakes for everyone, and then I went to church alone. A nice, little Sunday.
Still no baby. But I do have sausage fingers, incurable heartburn, and I can no longer sleep in my own bed because my hips and pelvis are threatening to disintegrate, so I’m on the couch. Think good thoughts for me, I am unsure as to how much more I can handle before giving up sanity entirely.
1 comment:
Sausage fingers. Sounds delicious.
I know it's lame to say this, but hang in there and enjoy the relative silence. And peace. And lack of hormonal tears. Okay, I'll shut up now.
Thinking of you.
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