Getting His Gloves On.

It's the darnedest thing.

You put them to bed, looking like an angel...

and they wake up...

looking like Mike Tyson.

Who knew?

His Gratitude Knows No (Geopolitical) Bounds.

Every night, before bed, Colin says a prayer. I provide the template ("Heavenly Father, we're grateful for...") and he does the rest. Sometimes, it's sweet. Sometimes, it's jibberish. But it's always funny.

On Saturday night, Colin's prayer went like this:

Heavenly Father, we're grateful for...

• Mama (the woman who nurtures and cuddles him)


• Mom (the woman who lets him jump on the couch like a trampoline)


• a bone that glows in the dark (referring to his glow-in-the-dark skeleton pajamas)


• bones that glow in the dark (again, the pajamas, but how's that for subject-verb agreement?)


• that Mama has 31 years


• Greenland


• Baby Pierce


• Teeth

So, there you have it. In the Wiltbank house, there's a lot to be thankful for. And at least two of us are grateful for teeth (Colin as he uses them; Brad as he preps and fills them). And at least one of us (me) is grateful that Pierce doesn't have any... yet.