Happy birthday, Dad...

Happy birthday, Dad.
I'd like to think you didn't have to go alone...
you took a piece of every single one of us with you.
We miss you, so incredibly much.

"We keep our love in this photograph.

We made these memories for ourselves.

Where our eyes are never closing,

out hearts were never broken,

time's forever frozen still."

Ed Sheeran, Photograph

Prime position...

Jack is playing tackle football for the first time - he's defensive end, a la Von Miller. I've been informed by a friend that this is prime position...all you have to do is make a few good tackles and you get all the chicks.

This is exactly what a mom wants to hear.

Here he is, waving to his roaring fan base, while getting shit from the coach for show-boating. He is his Father's Son, save for the replacement of football for rugby, where if one applies these football tackles, you will be called out for "tit rubbing".

For the most part, it's best not to ask.

Let me choke you 'til you tap out...

Simultaneous discussions overheard a few days ago in our household:

Jack: Hey James, let's choke each other until one of us taps out.
James: HELLO KITTY!
Me: That may be the dumbest idea I've heard all week. And James, why are you screaming hello kitty?

*insert choking each other*...

Me: Seriously. Stop that. Go learn how to play the guitar or something.
Me: Isla, what do you want as a PIN for your bank card? 4 numbers.
Isla: Gabby
Me: Four. NUMBERS...
Isla: Gabby

I suspect that the choking and tapping out game has been going on for a while, depleting oxygen supply to their brains. I've been oblivious to the clues, including this notebook of Isla's from last year that I just found. I appreciate her clarity and strong declaration of feelings regarding sentence construction: "I quit", with a big old "pirid" to make her point clear.

How cute is that little backward "s" in her name, though?