Observations from my four-year-old:
I suspect this fourth installment of Looks Like will be the final one. My as-of-yesterday five-year-old doesn’t make a lot of these observations anymore; he’s too busy saying things like “As you see …. ” and “As I told you already … “. Last night when walking home from dinner he remarked upon the holiday lights next door and said “I love those blue lights. They make my heart feel decorated.” I know what you mean, kid.
When I think about Arlo being five, I’m filled more with excitement for his future than nostalgia for his past. It might be because I’m still in the baby and toddling years with Farrah Star but I think it’s because I’ve had the gift of being home with him, of being his Constant in every conceivable way. I attended Immersion Parenthood and became fluent in Arlo. Now I can go anywhere he takes me.
Looks like fun to me.
Every year I record my child reading “Brown Bear, Brown Bear”.
Today my son becomes a five-year-old and
the universe looking at me.
Happy Birthday my Darling Dove. You are everything.
More: Arlo’s Birth
Today I’m happily answering another provocative photo challenge from Where’s My Backpack; this week it’s all about Freedom.
Again I thought I’d be combing through years of archives but it turns out freedom is all around me, every day.
Thank you WMB for another great theme!
Mostly Montreal Monday
Light Therapy at Place des Arts, an impromptu Sunday outing and a good one.
Mild weather, the illuminated faces of my curious children and a ride on the metro.
Happy Monday Explorers.
The final of 28 centimeters (11″) after a 36-hour fall:
What it felt like:
Winter came to play, y’all.
A couple of nighttime shots shared on Twitter:
I’ve talked about the allure of Twitter before and lately I’ve upped my game. In addition to the occasional pic I like the challenge of communicating in 140 characters. Here I am if you’d like to follow and catch things like:
5yos Christmas list: I want a race car. Farrah gets baby toy. ONE baby toy. And you get a new computer cause you're always losing the connec
— Lisa Bagchi (@blackpantysalv) December 9, 2014
I hope those two pills loose in the medicine box were really medicine. Someone check on me in an hour. Bring lollipops and repetitive beats.
— Lisa Bagchi (@blackpantysalv) November 25, 2014
But if you want the real deal, check out George Wallace:
I'll straight up read 'em and NOT weep 'cause I'm a stone cold thug and the rules don't apply to me and so forth, etcetera
— George Wallace (@MrGeorgeWallace) December 8, 2014
I’m no CSI, but judging by the amount of tampon wrappers in our trash, my signature move for the next few days will be shutting the fuck up.
— Babies Daddy (@dshack8) October 10, 2013
Having a meltdown sounds delicious.
— 5uperfluous (@5uperfluous) November 15, 2014
More from the net:
This stopped me in my tracks.
Enjoy your weekend shoveling and scraping and so forth and what not, et cetera.
I dread decorating the tree every Christmas so this year, naturally, I bought two; one for the kids and one for the living room. I’m the only one who decorates, I’m just not good at it and I resent how much time it takes. Let’s get two!
Fa la la la la!
I could not let go of the image of my kids falling asleep and waking up to a Christmas tree. That vision coupled with a steam train I bought last year specifically to go around a someday-kids’-only-tree and I just had to make it happen.
Worth it. The whole scene is out of a storybook and I long for those kind of memories to be painted in my kids’ minds.
I myself have a deep imprint of my Grandmother’s white, aluminum Christmas tree in her living room. Something like this:
Because of this potent memory, all of my Christmas decorations are artificial; sparkle, sequins, pinks, blues and plenty of iridescence. Yet because of another potent memory, they all adorn a real tree. I grew up with a fake, green tree – just plastic masking as a tree – and I always wanted a real one. So here I am, stuck in the middle with you:
It’s so goddamned beautiful but if one of those white aluminum numbers pops up on craiglist, we’re going artificial next year. Just like my boobs. Are you there Santa? It’s me, Lisa.