Connor and Natalie made me so proud on Mother's Day: They discovered my stash of Calvin and Hobbes books and have been making their way through it ever since.
I knew this day would come.
true story
sandlot
seismic shift
ultimate throwdown
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Natalie arrived home from school horrified, just horrified, that the boys that she plays superheroes with on the playground call her "Nat."
"'Nat' is not my name," she declared, crossing her arms and sticking her chin in the air.
"Does everyone at school call you 'Nat'?" I've noticed artwork coming home where a teacher has scrawled "Nat" on the bottom, but I figured that it was a space-saving shortcut on the smaller art pieces.
"Carson does, Mason does, Jack does," Natalie said, rattling off her classmates' names. "But not Parker."
Parker is Natalie's preschool sweetheart. "He's going to be Batman when he's in his 60s," Natalie told me yesterday.
"When the boys call me 'Nat,' Parker tells them, 'Her name is 'Natalie.'"
Natalie quotes Parker not in a spat-out-in-anger way, but as an honoring, royal, sound-the-trumpets proclamation: "Her name! Is! Natalie! And thou shalt not disrespect her!"
When Connor was just little, he called Natalie "Nally," and I thought for sure that the pronunciation would stick. Natalie pronounces Connor's name with a, well, with some sort of accent: "Corner," she calls him. I think, though, that these two will remain "Connor" and "Natalie," "Bug" and "Sweet Banana."
silly goosehound
baby isser
zsa zsa no more
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"Ah, spring," Connor sighed. "She's a beautiful thing."
mother nature's child
hocus crocus
hush, little birdie, don't say a word
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We've been lolling about in spring- and summertime temps here in north Texas, but Mother Nature relegated us back to winter today. We're talking grey skies, blustery winds, and rain.
Connor—that old soul of mine—arrived home from school and fixed himself a cup of hot tea. He settled into a chair and sighed, "Tea. It's a glorious thing."
It is that.
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