A boy after my own heart

I was baking A's birthday cake this afternoon. He'd collapsed into a nap on the couch after a long, happy day of play with his friend H at the Fleet; I had L in the baby bouncer in the kitchen with me as I baked.

L was not too keen on being trapped while I baked, but I handed him some scraps of parchment paper to teethe on and he seemed okay with that--until I started pouring out cake batter. If I was still eating cake batter, this is the cake batter I would eat: thick, rich, chocolately-buttery-delicious. Then L started to tantrum madly. It looked to the casual eye like he was happy with parchment until he realized there was cake batter in play.

If my life were a sitcom, this is where I would have handed him a spoon of batter, salmonella and allergy-introduction be damned, and I would have an adorable photo of a batter-smeared baby to show you. But my life is my life, so L screamed at me until I put the cake pans in the oven. Then I changed his diaper.

New house

We moved. It was the Worst. Move. Ever. The movers were high, possibly gangsters, and very, very incompetent.

But I love the house. I love that my ILs showed up and painted it in lovely colors; I love that our friends showed up and finished painting and moved furniture around (and set up our internet tubes, bonus).

But I love the house, and I love having the house. I love the big dead backyard with its one huge shade tree over the big patio; I love that Henry the mailman brings mail to our front step. I love the sound of the fountain out front; I love the lizard without a tail in our backyard that I've named Stumpy. I love the light inside. I love the view of the canyon. I love the neighbors who brought me a bouquet of their own home-grown roses.

When we're unpacked and it's not overflowing with boxes, I'll love it more. But for now, I love this house.