Like most babies, Miles loves to pull sunglasses off your face, lick them, wave them around, and eventually flip them absently out of reach. The last time I saw my sunglasses was about three weeks ago. We had returned to our old Raymond St. house one more time to dig up a plant (of ours) from the front yard. By the time we got home, they were just missing. Scoured the car high and low, but no joy. Could only conclude that the little stinker had flung them out the window. But yesterday when I got home from work, Amy had this photo up on my desktop. She had just gotten around to transplanting the bush, and in the process found my glasses tucked amidst its branches. Miles and the bush had shared the back seat on the way home.
At least he hasn’t yet flushed our keys down the toilet — a trick I apparently pulled twice on my parents at his age.