…between a boy and his cars.
Sorry, Justin, if you’re reading this and thought it was going to be a mushy gushy post about us. Check back on December 15th, the one day of the year at which I revert back to being Justin’s wife and not Mitchell’s mom. Well, except for this year, because I will be exactly 36 weeks pregnant, we’ll be a month into a brand new place, and have no babysitter for Mitchell. So, basically, we’ll be lucky to get halfway into a movie after Mitchell goes to bed before I start complaining about heartburn, leaking obnoxious smells from various orifices, and/or fall asleep where I lie. How about that “for better or for worse” mumbo jumbo, eh?
Whoa, that’s a hell of a tangent. And back to Earth.
Mitchell has a true love. It’s cars. We sit on the front porch every morning watching Daddy leave for work and Mitchell points at every car that drives by yelling, “Car! Car! Car! Car!” The bigger the car, the louder he screams. Then he comes inside and drives his Hot Wheels around the house yelling, “Car! Car! Car! Car!”
Today he found the sign we used to introduce She Who Must Not Be Named to the world and dragged me to the bedroom. He jumped on the bed with the sign and started to pose, then got distracted by the cars hidden in the bed. Because, you know, why WOULDN’T there be Hot Wheels hidden under the pillows or blankets of Mommy and Daddy’s bed? The next fifteen minutes were spent treating each car like a long lost friend.
He moved on to the window, where he was photobombed by a puppy.
And then, finally, it was nap time. He made his very own booby trap with cars. Play close attention to the direction of the cars.
That’s right, they’re all in the same direction. Ah, my child, the OCD.