Watermelon Ball

Last night Harrison returned from another three-day visit to Grandma and Grandpa H's house. He was supposed to be returned shortly after I got home from work, around 3:30, but, apparently oblivious to my aching heart, my parents didn't pull into the driveway until 5:30! My mom says they couldn't leave because he was napping, but Doug's convinced that she wanted to keep him just a little bit longer, so maybe the word she meant to use was kidnapping. (Yes, this is the same grandma that last summer suggested that she take Harrison to her house during the week, since Doug and I would be at work anyway, and she would bring him back on the weekends.)

So yesterday evening, Doug and I just wandering around our yard, waiting, pulling weeds, and looking up like dogs every time a car drove past: "Is it them?"

Anyway, we are so happy to have him home, because, you know, even though we say that we can't wait to have some time alone with each other before he's gone, and we always make big exciting plans to go to R-rated movies and restaurants that don't have kids' menus, once he's actually gone, we spend a lot of time sitting around and saying, "I miss my bubby," calling grandma for real-time updates, looking at pictures of him, and in my case this week, actually crying over some old baby photos that I hadn't seen before--an episode I'm blaming on premenstrual hormones. (In my defense, and as Ash and Suzanne can attest, I've cried over much less. Let's just say the last incident involved shedding tears over a dairy product and leave it at that.).

And no matter how much Doug and I try to endear ourselves to each other with affectionate gestures and witty repartee, we can't even begin to compete with the charm of a one-year old rolling a watermelon around the kitchen floor, saying "Ba! Ba!" (Ball! Ball!) and farting every time he tries to pick it up because it's heavier than a bowling ball and four times bigger than his head.

Which is exactly what happened as soon as we brought Harrison into the house.