Soren. Soren, Soren, Soren.

It’s blizzarding. This morning, we awoke to a trace of snow. Now there are a lot of inches. It hasn’t stopped all day. Yow.

Soren has apparently let his doctor’s compliments go to his head, and he no longer responds to requests to ‘stop.’ Little stinker. He does, however, run merrily into his bedroom if you ask him if he wants a ‘nice, dry bum.’ As he weighs one million pounds, it’s nice to just have to pick him up onto the changing table rather than capture and lug him from all corners of our house (so, what, up to 20 feet away?).

I’m sad to take down Christmas and have to go be a big girl, but I’m getting really stir-crazy. I think I’m juuust about ready for school to let back in. Soren and I need a little space, if you know what I’m saying. Read the first sentence in the above paragraph again. What I’m saying is that he’s now a two-year old. He’s also begun saying ‘no.’ (It sounds more like “non non non!”)

He also calls me mama, but not if you ask him to. Then, he still calls me dada.

About lindswing

Once upon a time, I was born, grew up a little bit, did some stuff, and now I have a blog. I deeply respect the Oxford comma.
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2 Responses to Soren. Soren, Soren, Soren.

  1. auntlouise says:

    Soren parle francais deja? Quel infant intelligent!

  2. auntlouise says:

    Oops! Should have said: Soren deja parle francais? Oh well, it’s been a very long time.

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