We are home.
Henry was asleep in the car when Timothy’s dad came to pick us up last night. I had imagined some kind of delirious reunion scene with little arms around necks and lots of ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ – but of course he’s not really old enough to appreciate a good train station moment. Instead he woke up mildly peeved, made sure we still knew what sound a train makes, then had to be bribed with Smarties and a dummy to go into our house instead of home with Papa.
A night in our own beds and a quiet Sunday of General Conference (mormon worldwide-broadcast-and-snacks day) has done us all the world of good. Tomorrow we’re finally saying goodbye to that sucker in his mouth. That stage they talk about where the pacifier is obviously a hindrance rather than a help? We are five miles past that, and unrolling sleeping bags. I’m done with I-want-the-dummy tantrums. I am so, so done. My plan is to put them all in an envelope and get him excited about putting them in the post so that other babies can have them. Don’t know what the Post Office will make of a stamp-less envelope addressed to The Dummy Fairy, but if you’re reading this, postman, don’t actually send them to any other babies. They’ve seen a lot of life. They shouldn’t see any more.
I am, as one expression goes, crapping my pants. Pray for me.
(Next up this week, a BILLION Paris photographs. Of course. It was beyond lovely.)