We took Chooch to the playground on Sunday and after a few minutes we began hearing, “Riley! It’s me! Emyle! From preschool!”
“I think that girl knows Chooch,” Henry deduced, Master Thinker that he is.
So Chooch spent the whole time running from her. One day, he’ll enjoy this activity. (Or maybe not, and that’s OK, too.) She’d look at me and I would point which way he went, which Henry said was mean but girls have to stick together.
Chooch started playing with her younger sister. (He likes kids that are either younger or older than him, not usually kids his own age. I have no idea why.) This caused Emyle to lean against a pole with her arms crossed and head down.
Spitting image of me.
Before we left the park, she chased him down and made him hug her. It was pretty fantastic for me, as a mom, to watch this monster who ruined me during pregnancy/child birth squirm under the extreme discomfort of the situation. I was completely rooting for Emyle.
We went for a walk yesterday when he came home from school. Three minutes after this picture was taken, Chooch decided he was old enough to cross the street by himself. That ended THAT walk pretty quickly.
In work news, Grandma Cleavage has business cards for her “jewelry line” now. It has her phone number on it, which is all I care about. Manuel will be placing a bulk order for sure.
I was going to write more about the party today, but time is not on my side. I did, however, finally get my camera battery and charger back, so now I at least have the pictures. Which, when you’re as tightly wound as myself, is a small weight lifted.