So my sister (Brook Shields, three kids, blah-de-blah) and I started this little, uh, habit during my last trip to Texas. Dane is quite the smushy little baby, and super mellow to boot, and so Brookie down there thought (like any aunt would): hey, i wonder if my smushy little nephew would fit into this fruit bowl?
|Uh… lady, do I know you?|
And then came mother’s day, and this awesome urn from Pottery Barn (for her, not me, although I would have left behind a good deal of my wardrobe to stick THAT nugget in my checked luggage):
|Mommy, WHO IS THIS LADY AND WHY IS SHE STICKING ME IN AN OLIVE JAR?|
What? Nobody said we were NORMAL, y’all. Also, this is where Dane’s alarm at being stuck in random containers peaks. I TOLD you he was mellow. He definitely does not get that from me. Also, also, sorry for the blurriness, but like I said, this was the peak of his alarm, so we didn’t get the normal five-to-ten to take good pics; my phone had to do.
So then I get home and what was once a random every-once-in-a-while thing has now become a full-fledged capsy THING:
|Uh, Gig’em, Mommy.|
I confess, I was really just making myself feel better by determining if he was still small and smushy enough to fit in a diaper box.
At least when I decided to stick him in this one, he’d already crawled halfway into the bag (apparently for a snack.).
And it doesn’t stop there:
|This. Is. Crazy. Mommy.|
Y’all. HE FITS IN MY LAUNDRY BASKET. So there ARE benefits to having the 15th percentile baby. Also, thank you, Gymboree, for tricking me into buying a redneck muscle shirt by putting a crab on it daring me to pinch my baby’s cuteness.
|Yo, Brookie. Here I come. Also, nice duck tape.|
Yeah. So it’s a thing.
And one more thing:
|Mommy. I AM NOT A BUILD-A-BEAR.|