Over the past week I have slept very little, stressed the shit out of my stomach and managed to mess up this three-year old blog royally! I decided to move my blog and take control over it, you see. For those who have no idea what moving a blog requires, fret not. I didn’t either. And I probably would never have learned the basics if it wasn’t for a wise computer geek, the likes of which I have newfound respect for.
It started with Instagram and a picture of a mummy, a daddy and the cutest red headed boy I have ever seen. Then the caption. The words ‘tragedy’ and ‘sudden loss’ were mentioned. That sweet boy was dead.
I immediately went into a frenzy. Searching on other Instagram profiles for anything that would explain what had happened. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. A little boy, dead? A three-year old little boy, whose mother had posted, that same morning, a picture of him running through Disneyland, was hit by a truck. He is no longer here. No longer in the arms of his mother. How can that be?
A few days after we returned, I noticed some miscommunication between Georgie and I. It started with stamping feet and whiny noises. Hm. Then there was the time he thought it would be funny to spit in my face. There are the sudden bursts of energy that end with a jump into a knee-high deep puddle while we are walking side by side and climbs on the kitchen counters, oblivious to the glass bottle of olive oil resting tensely on the edge. Also, the day he decided to leisurely stroll out a cafe where we were sitting and turn right. Out of sight. On a busy road. Oh and the peculiar requests in the middle of the night.
Paris: A photographer’s paradise.
1. André Kertész- Champs Elyseés 1929
2. Clifton R. Adams – 1929
3. Unknown source
4. Unknown source
5. La Amour de Paris by Stacy Reeves
My other babies.
She has no idea how big she is. Or how annoying she is. Lily Rose will jump on you while you’ve got a cup of hot tea in your hand, get her head stuck in between the gate bars and chew through two doormats in ONE WEEK! She’s protective and loyal, kind and playful.
We call him The Brain- as in Pinky and The Brain?- It’s not even funny how much alike they are. Tano has a temper and will lash out if he’s not in the mood, so we manage him with care and lots of sweet talk. The poor bastard was taken from his mother too soon, I think and so he developed a little aggressive streak. He’s always on his toes and ready to announce himself with excessive barking whenever he sees or hears something. Those of you who have heard how Tano screams when he sees a cat, will know what I’m talking about.