Thanksgiving...
An early nap has made him restless. His siblings are asleep, while he clicks his camera and flings his Woody doll. I don't really mind the interruption in routine or the sleeping musical chairs.
It's the price we pay for a weekend with family, songs with my grandmother, games with my cousins, pie for breakfast. I know these moments will soon be gone.
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One question has plagued us for the last two Christmases: what do you give the family, the children, the friends who are about to move?
We've been in a perpetual state of waiting to move for that long and even before that, were always searching out new, small, easy to pack yet meaningful treasures for our wee three.
With that in mind, I'd like to offer...
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We have a moving tradition: we cry, till it's out of sight.
Our first home was in Oak Park. Matt moved in first, bringing hand-me-downs and woodworking projects to the brownstone apartment. I sat in the living room, under the bay windows, reading in a green chair. This was the life (as my sentimental mind remembers it): young love in romantic Chicago, stained glass over the mantle, a white cat and an antique bed ensuring - no matter how bad our fight was - we rolled to the middle, every night.
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Ok, so maybe he had a chocolate peanut butter cup for breakfast. And maybe we all slept in well past the point of no return. And maybe the children didn't brush their teeth before school. And maybe the wee lad threw himself down in a fit in front of the door, refusing to put on jacket (or socks, or shoes). And maybe I yelled. A lot...
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I'm smack dab in the middle of a bath fight. A wet and naked three year old sits on me, the laptop precariously balances in my left hand, and a screaming match is being had over two nearly identical yellow cars.
Just a typical Wednesday night with the wee three...
We appear to be in a season of non-movement. Things are happening, to be sure, but it feels like we're frozen here in time while the rest of the world chugs right on along without us.
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