One spring, I think in 2000 when Lex was three and Nate was one, I went to Tahoe with the boys and their dad and some friends of ours who had three kids. The ones who were old enough spent the afternoon behind the house, looking for snow that hadn’t melted yet and playing hide and seek in the trees. Right after they came inside, a bear came from behind the house, easily opened the little shed that held the garbage can (and was supposed to keep bears out), and happily rooted through our garbage. Just like Chris’ bear, this bear ate a poopy diaper, and just like at Chris’ house, we all watched from the window, laughing and kind of gagging a little (or, if you were me, a whole hell of a lot).
The next day, Lex took a header down the steep, rustic, cabiny, wooden stairs and landed on the wood floor on his face. He laid there, motionless, while all the blood drained from my body and I nearly fainted. Then he jumped up and ran off to play (at least that is how I’m choosing to remember it — in any event, he was fine, and I haven’t been to Tahoe since).
Yesterday I worked in Sophie’s class for the afternoon. I got to watch forty kindergarteners learn the Chicken Dance, the Mexican Hat Dance, AND the Macarena. If you are free on Friday at 11:00, you really ought to come watch them perform.
I will be back later in the week with photos.