The week started off lovely:
We made and hung pinecone birdfeeders, then the boys stared out the back door, expecting birds to immediately descend.
Noah discovered Shel Silverstein and fell in love with poetry for the first time.
We painted with brushes dangling from strings (thank you Mary Ann Kohl),
Owen discovered that fists are good for more than sucking on: they can move things around!
We went to the mall, found several cheap pairs of pants for the younger two, and had the most enormous ice cream cones ever--all without a meltdown.
Valentines decor was created,
Owen watched and charmed us all.
And then Wednesday, we took Noah to the doctor, as he's been complaining for weeks now about being sick. He hasn't shown any real symptoms, but Mark had a lingering sinus infection that left him tired but functional, so we thought maybe it wasn't just Noah drama.
So we get there, and the nurse asks him what's wrong. "Ummmm....well....sometimes....when I run really fast, I get all out of breath." Okaaay, then, anything else? "Wellllll....sometimes, when I go like this," and here he starts trying to do the splits from standing up, "it kinda hurts my legs."
Somehow the nurse makes it out of the room without laughing, Noah braves his way through a blood draw to check for anemia, and we get our lollipops and go.
And then the next morning Nate throws up all over the loveseat. So long, guilt over ignoring Noah; hello, guilt over needlessly exposing Nate to germs at the doctor's office.
He was one pretty sick little guy for a few days, but now he is better, the Saints have won the Super Bowl, and all is well with my world again.