box man

I like to think of this blog as my own personal answer to the Slow Food Movement. Like, really slow.

Because hot damn, I've got THINGS TO SAY, a whole backlog of 'em, and it's just not going to happen until we switch sides of Lake Michigan. Departure is set for Sunday, cavalry is coming tomorrow in the form of grandparents to corral the children, and you'll just have to imagine that our moving truck will be festooned with palm fronds and marigolds and ripe pomegranates and little swamis chanting good-luck mantras. Because I'm not going to post any pictures.

Hey, you should try this mixture of no-sleep, stress, and hormones, it's groovy!

So, Auden. Bless his little heart. We saw a contortionist at Bastille Days a few weekends ago, and he has been OBSESSED with the part of the act where the big tall man in a neon-green leopard print bodysuit folds himself into his tiny box. He calls him Box Man, and has been compelled to re-enact the routine at home. Like, all the time. And box man wears cool shoes, and box man does a funny dance, and box man walks LIKE THAT MAMA, MAMA WATCHING YOU?

He dumps out the recycling bin and crouches inside, he dumps his trucks out of their plastic bin and eases his butt down into it, he squeezes both feet into his potty and hunches over it, exclaiming, I'm a BOX MAN! He can do box-man in just about anything.

Fortunately for him, there are lots and lots of boxes. Boxes everywhere. Everything boxed. We are a Box Family.

After we move: video proof of these shenanigans, Isla crawling, and a story about a surgery from all the way back in April! With before and after pictures!

And I'll make 75% more sense!

Milwaukee, we'll really really miss you.

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