I mentioned yesterday that we went to Disney World last week. Here are some pictures:
This is my beautiful daughter. She is magical and full of twirly goodness. She is also kind, loving, and very good at accessorizing.
This is my older son. He is mischievous and lives with enthusiasm. He is into big hugs, big jumps, and may wind up in some sort of job that involves a ghillie suit.
This is my husband and my younger son. The expression that the baby is rocking is the same one you would get from my husband if he thought you were too stupid to dress yourself in the morning. I think it proves that he is just humoring Daddy’s self-portrait attempts. Harry is actually smiley, bright, and rapidly moving toward walking so that, as far as we can tell, he can get the hell away from Griffin.
These pictures are the reason I spent 7-8 hours in a minivan on I-75 twice in the last week. They are why I threw my diet to the wind and ate mouse-shaped ice cream sandwiches. They are why I own three sets of mouse ears. They are why, with my feet and back aching, I smiled at Tigger, Pooh, Mary Poppins, Buzz Lightyear, Woody, Jessie, a host of princesses, Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy, Pluto…you get the idea.
They are why my husband looked at me on the Disney World Railroad at the end of three days in the parks and said, “you look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet.” I never look like that in Paris.
But I don’t get those three little faces in my Parisian photos, either. At least not yet.