Over the last eight years I find myself wondering what Wyatt would be like and what I have been missing raising three girls and not my precious son (and now sons). Today I am not wondering.
While vacuuming the enormously ugly and ugly enormous rug we have in our entry way, which is there for a reason which will soon become obvious, I heard the distinct crickling sound of gravel entering my vacuum cleaner. Gravel which literally falls out of our oldest daughter's shoes every day after school. Gravel, which combined with dirt, makes perfect mocha imprints of her little toes on her once white socks. Gravel which even finds its way into my washing machine courtesy of her jean pockets. I'm pretty sure Wyatt and her are two peas in a pod but I nonetheless would have loved to see it for myself.