This was one of those days when Julie and I put Lyla to bed and then looked at each other downstairs and said, simultaneously, "Did you take a picture of her today? No. You didn't? Jinx, buy me a Coke! Stop saying what I'm saying. Stop saying what I'm saying!"
But then luckily I remembered that I did snap off one photographic masterpiece with my cellphone at the zoo. Those blurry objects on the left may or may not belong to a tiger.
I think it's possible that Lyla will become a janitor. When we take her to an expensive, wonderful place, she likes to veer off toward the waste receptacles and examine them carefully. We tell her no and pull her away, and sometimes she goes all squiggly and limp and cries. At 13 months old it's not embarrassing, but it will be in nine years.
It's okay. Lyla can be whatever she wants to be, including a janitor or a garbage man. I mean garbage woman. Garbage lady? Garbage man-ette? Whatever.
I don't know what she's pointing at in that picture, incidentally. Maybe I had garbage on my shirt.
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