While I was cavorting at BlogPaws this weekend, my husband was getting some work done around the house, a task I truly appreciate as I despise housework with the hot flames of a thousand suns. While I would like to think this was because he just loves me that much, the cynic in me also whispered that perhaps he was just buttering me up for the abandonment that comes with the start of the NFL football season.
No matter. I am still happy.
One of his self-appointed tasks was to hang some pictures on the wall. As you probably know if you’ve been hanging around here long enough, my husband is a fabulous photographer. Despite what you might think based on the pawcurious Flickr page, he spends even more time photographing our human kids than he does our animal ones, and he had several really cute ones blown up and framed to put on the walls.
“That’s you,” he said to our son, pointing to a closeup of a pudgy cheeked, blue eyed baby peeking out of the frame.
“And that’s you,” he said to our daughter, gesturing to a happy moment of her toddlerhood where she faced Emmett, arms thrown over his leonine scruff, sitting nose to nose. “There’s you and Emmett.”
“Oh,” she said, peering at the photo. “I thought that was Brody.” Poor Brody gets that a lot. They are eerily similar.
And then she looked at me guilelessly, she who grew up under the shaggy shade of Emmett’s shadow, the child who brought him a plastic bag to function as a chemo blanket, who sobbed while Daddy read “Dog Heaven” to her since I couldn’t make it past page 2, and said,