In awe.

There are a million anxiety-provoking things that accompany pregnancy. And a million anxiety-provoking people who do not really help that situation. Each of these women has to face this monstrous, multifarious list of things-to-be-understood. What TYPE of delivery? Is my doctor one I trust? Where to buy clothes, and what will really be useful? What classes to take? How do I measure up to averages and charts?...And the list goes on and on. But then it stops, and amazingly each of these women goes from grasping and a bit wobbly, to finally finding her sea legs.

Saturday I spent the day hopping from one shower to the next, and I noticed this. And also remembered it in myself. The great shift from doubt and frustration and a million questions, to confidence. A confidence that I love watching my expecting-mother-friends attain.


And, as always, a few pictures of the boy:

Keep Blowin' That Whistle

Try telling the children of Houston to "stop running" when they encounter this chilly fountain of life: their reprieve from the soul-sucking Houston summer. Yes, authoritative-man-in-the-red-shirt, keep blowing that whistle.

Fortunately, this little one is incapable of running, making us the proud parents of a rule abiding citizen kid (However, yesterday he was empowered with mobilization by performing his first SCOOT. Yes, a scoot. A backwards scoot.)




More water fun to follow:

First time swimming.


Bath.




And I just think this one is cute. I made that little monster muscle tank (printed it, at least). Suits him well, right?

Counting Time

I have a funny way of measuring time. I always count it to my benefit. For example: if I were really excited about something, say, the end of teaching this year, two months before it's over I might observe, "It's been 11 weeks since I've returned, and I only have 9 more to go. That's more than half. And that counts the Monday holiday, and finals, which practically takes off two weeks, which means: I'm almost done."

That stream of thinking helped me do it. It's not that I didn't like teaching. On the contrary: I loved it. But I love Booker more, and I didn't see him enough. These days that I have with this little man are blissful, and sweet. And rich. And I don't have to count time like that anymore.

MUSTACHE*QUERADE

Last night I threw a belated birthday party for Josh. He's 30. It was a Mustache-querade.

This is the invitation.

This Downs family is very adept at growing very impressive facial hair.

A little game we like to call "Match That 'Stache." The objective: to correctly draw the mustaches of these famous-for-their-facial-hair individuals.

DIY Party Favors.

The Guests:

Our house is a bit compact, but, one way or another, we were able to fit all our mustache-wielding friends inside. All in all, it was a lovely evening.

Sequence.

For Josh's birthday weekend we ate at H-Town StrEATs, supporting the budding food truck business in Houston. And it was delicious. Our menu: lamb sliders with mint, arugula and feta; Thai spare ribs; and Montecristo Balls. Amazing. You can find their ever-changing location here.
A delicious cake Angeles made for Josh. Angeles is Booker's babysitter, and our friend. And she's Mexican, so she really knows how to make a Tres Leches cake. We only shared two minuscule slices. We indulged in the rest.

These party hats were not for Josh's birthday, but for our dear friend Danielle. The other invited friends were brave to wear them publicly. Booker is a darling gnome.

Photo-heavy

Just posting a few recent photos: At the zoo. Booker wants the ICEE in his mouth. Booker wants everything in his mouth.
Our dear friends who were in for just a brief spell, at the Ft. Worth zoo. That place was very impressive. So much that I didn't feel bad for the animals because of the awesomeness of their man-made habitats. That's saying a lot.

A very impressive display of colors on the INSIDE of the cake I made for a friend's baby shower. I clearly sacrificed function for form in this case: sometimes aesthetics win.

The boys: my dear, sweet, sleeping boys.

And Booker. I love this babe. And very soon I will bid farewell to my time-sucking job as a teacher to spend more time wrestling and saying ridiculous things to this little fatso. I am thrilled.

W-A-S-H-A-T-E-R-I-A

wash·a·te·ria. noun \ˌwä-shə-ˈtir-ē-ə, ˌwȯ-\. Definition of WASHATERIA. chiefly Southern. : a self-service laundry.

A washateria is where the Downs family does their laundry every two weeks. The name itself doesn't get much respect. Even as I type, the built-in dictionary on blogger refuses to recognize the word, degrading it with haughty and ruthless red underlining. We, however, are big fans of this chiefly Southern mainstay. If you will recall, we swapped in-house laundry services for glass doorknobs, and we haven't looked back thanks to these perks:

1) All of our laundry done in an hour-and-a-half.
2) It's only a few blocks away.
2) All the telenovelas (a Latin-American soap opera) you can ask for during that hour-and-a-half on a twelve-inch television. There's a new one out called La Reina del Sur about the female leader of one of Mexico's drug cartels. Based on a true story. Life-changing television.
3) Children who will watch the Spanish version of Shrek on their portable DVD player with your son while you do laundry (apparently it is funnier in Spanish).
4) Lots of opportunities to practice Spanish.

The one non-perk: Sitting in work after laundry day and being tickled under your clothes by what turns out to be a 10-12 inch black hair that does not belong to you, your wife, or your son.