Because by the end of this post, your ovaries will have borrowed the car, taken it for a joy ride, hit some mailboxes with baseball bats, stolen a cat, smoked cigarettes, gotten a tattoo, seen the very face of God, repented its sins, gone home to safety, taken a shower with The Crying Game playing in the background, and cuddled under fifteen handmade woven turquoise and rust-orange blankets with a mug of hot chocolate and feathers in its hair.
Unless you’re not into babies.
So, my amazingly talented and hilarious friend Jenny came over the other day to take some photos of the babies. But she wanted me in the shots as well, so I had to shower, wash my hair, put on makeup, put on a bra, get out of my yoga pants and put on deodorant. Talk about a workout!
I couldn’t decide which photo I liked best of them barfing on me. I MEAN me cuddling them. So I’m showing you all of them. It’s like a flip book! A very short flip book. With very little that happens.
See all that hair that Will has? Natalie doesn’t have that just yet. And she’s rightly upset about it. I keep telling her it’s not her fault she looks like Doug Stamper from House of Cards.
Natalie wants to show you her booger that her mom forgot to tweeze out of her nose before these photos were taken.
That’s right, I tweeze the boogs out. Don’t send me hate mail.
Little hands, little yawns, little faces, little armpits, little heads, “EVERYTHING AROUND ME IS . . . little.” (name that movie.)
Then we moved to my bedroom to sit on the bed and act all Pinteresty.
At least I know it.
This was when Will was explaining the laws of ecogravitational subatomic means of the pluralistic nincompoopular effects on the zixthafribble decrees in the third dimension. Obviously.
I want to blow this next photo up to life size it and place it next to my bed. On Aaron’s side.
The truth is, I actually do sing and play the guitar for them. And daily. I make up cute little happy songs about cutting tiny feet off and eating them in soups, the national debt that they’ll have to pay someday, how the sun is going down because it’s sloppy drunk and the moon has to take over because the sun can no longer stand up. It’s adorable!
If you ask me to play Skynyrd I will deny ever knowing you.
Will, you should probably try and get comfortable once in a while.
I want to drink that drool on their faces. That’s how psycho I am.
Natalie loooooves this little game we play called “Mommy eats baby’s face.”
I do realize I should probably not in fact be a mother.
They’re a little too close to the edge of the bed, aren’t they? OH MY GAWD THEY ARE. It’s all Aaron’s fault!
(But he wasn’t even there, Bev.)
Too bad my nose looks like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Look at him looking at you. And her little hands clasped. Don’t you just want to punch yourself? GAH.
Also, Charlie wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten about her. She had her first spring kill today since getting sick five months ago. We’ve never been so proud. (and completely grossed out)
Alrighty, go give your ovaries an ice bath, skillet fries.
*HUGE thanks to Jenny Wheat for capturing such incredible images. I’m so glad I didn’t scare you away with my songs about diaper rash and Dijon mustard squirts.
. . . Jenny?
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