Kennedy loved the glasses so much, that no amount of dissuasion would convince her to take them off, even in church the next day.
As we left the theater, I took this picture of Kimble and his daddy, walking back to the car. I love how it's distorted and blurry.
The next day, I sat down to finish my sewing for the holiday craft fair I was going to the next day, and discovered that my sewing machine was possessed by a demon. It only sewed backwards, didn't sew in the position I told the needle to be in, and wouldn't respond with any of the other things I normally used. I was beyond frustrated, and upon talking with friends, realized that it probably needed a tune-up, as well as some circuit tweaking with the internal computer.
I lamented my woes to The Husband, and being the fixer that he is, he sat down and said he would fix it. I scolded him and told him not to, but he went ahead and dissected my machine. I was sure I would never sew again, especially when he would hold up some metal thing and say "Uh, you don't really need this in the machine, right?"
Alas, he got it all cleaned out, dismantled the whole thing, unplugged all the internal wires and plugged them in again...and wouldn't ya know it? It was fixed. It's soft whirring and proper needle placements made me act extra lovey to The Husband, who replied with a "I told you I could fix it." What a good man.
Today I experienced a first with Mr. Kimble. He pooped in the bath tonight, which is something he's never done before. It reminded me of a time when I was a little girl, and my sisters and I were being watched by our older cousins. They had about three of us in a bubbly bath, and were washing us, when one cousin thought she saw some poop in the water. We got yelled at "Who pooped in the bath? You are old enough to know better!" We all denied the charges, and yet they had us all get out so they could fish the poop out. Turns out, the "poop" was just a bar of brown soap. "See. We were telling the truth!"
Although Mr. Kimble's poop was the real deal, I didn't get upset at him. It just happens at the wrong time, sometimes.
To finish things off, here's a picture of my three elementary-aged kids, on wacky hair day. We had no fun-colored hairspray to make them happy, but having spikey hair for the boys, and 17 ponytails for Kennedy, seemed to satisfy them enough.