And the first pictures I’m bringing forth from our Alaska vacay: James! My 7 month old nephew. The one with the fuzzy head. The one with the big old cheeks.
The one with the fattiest, most delightful little baby thighs I have ever seen, squished, or kissed.
This isn’t the first time that fat baby thighs have distracted me from blogging about larger events . . . as I recall, a pair of marshmallow legs at Joe and Steph’s wedding produced the identical effect. What can I say–I guess I’m predictable that way.
I’m having trouble imagining I could ever love a child as much as I love this one. Even if I give birth to a baby from my own loins, sustain its fragile life with food from my own body, name it ‘Fatty Lumpkin,’ and it has thighs so wonderfully big that they could roll down a baby-sized highway, right now I doubt it could ever be as lovable. As cute. As grabbable . . . or as grabbing-crazed. So here is a little series entitled ‘Grabby McGrabberton.’ The alternate title–from the perspective of my terrified camera–is ‘Death Claw Alert–Save Ye He Who May.’
Oh that little James. He’s a cure-all for the Monday blues.