How cool would Owen be if he was old enough to go to school and show off this battle scar? We went to Star Lake this afternoon, where the ducks & geese are numerous and jaded. They are fed so well and so often that they see little kids as good for only one thing. So when Owen was slow to hand over the baked goodies, one of them took a nip at him.
Have no fear family matriarchs, I googled "Are duck bites dangerous?" and nothing came up.
Today was the first day this week I didn't have to clean up puke, and that's only because Scott cleaned it up for me instead. Coby has pancreatitis (originally diagnosed as terminal cancer on Monday by an obviously demented emergency veterinarian) so Owen and I spent Sunday through Wednesday going from emergency vet to regular vet to specialist vet back to regular vet. Bottom line on Coby: he pukes a lot and costs us a lot of money but he shouldn't be dying anytime soon.
After our last vet run on Wednesday, I decided to take Owen to McWane Center to make up for all the developmental time he'd been wasting in cat-kitsch-filled waiting rooms. It rained on Wednesday, which meant every summer camp within 3 counties decided to dump their kids (and their germs) off there. By Thursday morning, Owen was puking too.
Where does one shop for some of that sawdust stuff that elementary school janitors use?
Owen and I just got back from the shoe store. I'd only planned to stop in and get a quick check of his shoe size, but one foot measured at a 6 and the other at a 5.5, which meant the size 5 shoes he walked in wearing would need to be replaced. And wouldn't you know, these red beauties were on sale 80% off. A deal like that justifies making him walk around looking like Judy Garland.
And on a "my sweet baby is growing up" note, Owen shrugged off my offered hand and walked down the flight of 10 brick steps from the driveway to the house all by himself. A year ago at this time all he could manage was a pitiful G.I. Joe belly crawl.
The following is random commentary that has nothing to do with San Diego...
Like a lot of your techno gadgets I'm sure, my computer and phone have this sometimes nifty, sometimes annoying word recognition feature where they try to guess what I'm typing before I can finish typing it. I appreciate the time it saves me when I'm purchasing something online and can avoid manually typing all my personal info (no worries Honey - I usually almost hardly ever autosave our credit card info). But then I'll turn around and fall victim to the T9 feature on my cell phone. Say I'm running late and, without looking, I send Scott the message "Be home soon!" He gets a text from me saying "Be good room!", and now he's thinking I haven't come home yet because I'm off somewhere having a stroke.
This morning Owen had a very minor developmental breakthrough, something only Scott and I could possibly get excited about, and I decided to send Scott a quick e-mail to let him know. Right before I clicked "Send" I noticed that who I'm thinking of when I type S-C-O-T... and who the computer thinks I'm thinking of are very different people. I nearly informed our neighbor Scott Sutton- via his office e-mail, no less -that Owen went tee tee in the potty.
Here's Owen's 20-month mug shot, taken at dinner one night in San Diego. When they sensed a temper tantrum coming, the whole family pitched in to make the photo happen. It really could have gotten ugly with me screaming, pulling hair and throwing sweet potato fries all over our booth.
So what do you think? O looks a little like Peter Sarsgaard in this shot, right?
FYI-slash-TMI: In the shot where Speck and I are imitating the meerkat, that is NOT my underwear showing. It's just a maternity camisole I can't seem to stop wearing under my clothes some 20 months postpartum. Betcha didn't even notice and now you're gonna have to sit through the whole slideshow again just lookin' for it...