My two-legged nephew turned one last week. My baby brother turned 35 two days before that, as he so gleefully enjoyed pointing out. I really didn’t need (or care) to be reminded and told him so, but our mother had the last word: "Ahem, I am twice as old as you are!"
The brat—er, brother—is rightfully proud of the little bugger—er, boy. He’s a hoot, and a remarkably happy baby. Lil’ Man did fabulously throughout the day with 30 odd people milling about his house. (It may, however, take days for my four-legged nephews to recover. Poor pussycats.) He only lost it once, when everybody cheered at the end of the singing/cake-and-candle ritual, but quickly recovered.
Father and son. Definitely Daddy's Boy.
How do you start this thing? (Or Where's first? He figured out reverse on his own.)
Binkies are better! (The red icing dot was courtesy of Lil’s Man’s crazy Uncle G.; the rest is the result of Lil’ Man’s taste test: icing was OK, cake—not as good as a binky.)
