There really is very little photographic proof of my existence in the 21st century. Our iphoto count from the past three years alone has now topped 11,000, and I'd venture a guess that you can see me in roughly 50 of those photos. Remove from that 50 the 44 shots that capture me in mid-speech, and/or with closed eyes, and we're down to a paltry 6. Of those 6, I am likely wearing pajamas and sucking coffee in 4 (because Chad loves to grab the camera during those pajama/coffee moments and say, "You're always complaining that there aren't any pictures of you, so I'm taking one now.") That leaves us with 2 decent shots, in which I'm holding infant Trevor. Can't pass those off as current.
So, today I make the solemn declaration that I will turn the lens on myself more than once a decade from now on. I'm part of this story, after all.
And yes, I am exaggerating a tiny bit about the lack of me-pics, but only a tiny bit.
We can title this one, "Dyann and Two Mini-Chads Say Cheese"
We can title this one, "Dyann and Two Mini-Chads Say Cheese"
Speaking of nocturnal creatures, Clara was sleepwalking last night. She climbed down from her loft around 9:30 and walked right out into the living room, saying something quasi-semi-coherent about Ramona the Pest. I suppose there are worse things than being a somnambulant bookworm. And count me relieved that she wasn't dreaming about the Rainbow Fairy books she's been reading lately, or we might have had a sleepflyer on our hands.
In the end, Trevi got his cat-and-boy pose by luring Bernie in with the promise of comfort. A good lesson in more-flies-with-honey. Berbs may be the bad (and dumb) cat of the family, but he is much more affectionate than his sister, Moomoos. Offer your lap and he will take it. And yes, he really is that big.
