My Reesie-Pie just turned one year old. That's twelve months in baby years. I just turned five hundred sixty-nine months, in case you were wondering. I'll wait while ya'll get your calculators out.
She's growing so fast! Isn't she beautiful? Grandi thinks so, too.
Of course we had a smash cake, but more on that later. Can we have a year in review? Because I certainly don't know where the time has gone!
The day she was born. Be still my heart.
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I can admit it.
I've been letting Gracie do all the heavy lifting around here lately. What little lifting has been done, anyway.
Phil and I tend to hibernate over the winter and lose all motivation to do anything and everything.
Except eat. We never lose motivation to eat. Because there's delicious wintertime comfort food to be had, and we look forward to putting on our thirty pounds of winter fat.
Each.
At least it gives us something to bitch about come springtime.
Nevertheless, I will continue to let Gracie have the run of the blog whenever she feels compelled; but, in the meantime, I have a furniture makeover for you today! And it's about bloody time, because it's for Reese, and she's already seven months old.
Holy poop-filled diapers. How did that happen so quickly? And why am I so late with this project?
Before you know it, Reese will be old enough to see that her Grandi occasionally swears on the blog.
In my defense, the kids have been renovating an old house and they are finally getting ready to move in. So, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not late at all, because I'm a wizard. And, as we all know, a wizard is never late, nor is she early. She arrives precisely when she means to.
Now, onto the buffet.
Only the finest for my grandnugget.
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Whoa. Thank goodness you're here.
I made two very important stops the other month. The purpose of those stops will reveal itself shortly.
Do you remember this?
And this?
Yeah, I'm way fatter than that now. What did you expect? My granddaughter was ready to come bursting forth from the womb at the moment I began typing this. And I've been gaining gran-pathy fat.
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I don't know how to begin this post. I suppose I will simply begin writing, and the words will come.
Some of you are aware I became a grandmother last week.
(I'll pause here a moment to bask in the warmth of your disbelief.)
I don't know how it happened, but somewhere between sleeping and waking, this sweet baby boy grew up. Not that he had far to go, mind you. I swear he was using my uterus as a frat house, since he came out mostly grown at ten pounds, ten ounces.
Twenty-five years ago.
Toting an empty beer bottle.
While driving a car.
Blasting AC/DC.
And sporting tats.
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