This collage is a summary of my weekend. Just Mae and I, or in today's vernacular, "Me & Mae. Her parents took a short trip and entrusted this lovable free-spirit to me for two-and-a-half days. Nothing energizes like being near boundless energy; I haven't felt so lively in a long time.
Dolls, park, singing, playing the violin, pretending in masks, cousin fun, visiting Pacific Science Center, shopping, dining, and rampant imaginary scenarios . . . just a sampling of the activities we enjoyed together this weekend.
But one of the most exciting things isn't depicted here, because I couldn't think about even touching a camera. We ate dinner with only our fingers one night. NO SILVERWARE ALLOWED! The best parts of the menu (which we planned together) were the applesauce and macaroni and cheese, all the more delicious for being eaten like poi.
Dolls, park, singing, playing the violin, pretending in masks, cousin fun, visiting Pacific Science Center, shopping, dining, and rampant imaginary scenarios . . . just a sampling of the activities we enjoyed together this weekend.
But one of the most exciting things isn't depicted here, because I couldn't think about even touching a camera. We ate dinner with only our fingers one night. NO SILVERWARE ALLOWED! The best parts of the menu (which we planned together) were the applesauce and macaroni and cheese, all the more delicious for being eaten like poi.
4 comments:
Oh my! She is so grown-up now!
Oh my! She's so grown up now! --Jan
Now I see what you two got up to! Phil and I had an equally wonderful time. Mae was scheming on getting some more time with "Maema" all the way home. When we arrived home we said "Aren't you happy to be seeing your friends?" To this Mae replied, "No, they aren't as fun as Maema." Hi praise from a 6-year-old. Thanks for the wonderful opportunity for PHil and I to have some time away.
Mae's Mom, Denise.
"Me and Mae?" Oh, no, not even in fun. Every time I see one of those memoir/autobiographies with "Me and...." or The ... and Me, I rage like mad Lear. Can you imagine "The Egg and Me"? How can publishers hold their heads up after allowing writers to put on those titles. Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh.
Post a Comment