Harrison at One

Harrison suffers some serious misfortunes.

1. His birthday is sandwiched between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
2. He is the third child.
3. He is the third child...and his siblings are all under the age of five.
4. Did I mention he is the third child?

His first birthday came and went without even the slightest blog entry...something that obviously NEVER happens with a firstborn. That's not to say, of course, that it was uneventful. Maybe some day I'll get around to posting the photos of Harrison--terrified--as the entire family sang "Happy Birthday" to him. Some day, too, I'll post the photos of Thatcher hacking away at the pinata he insisted Harrison have for his first birthday party. Of course, it might not be until after Harrison is in kindergarten. Posting the pictures from Christmas and our trip to San Antonio for Xandra's wedding probably won't happen until after he graduates...from college.

Rather than dwell in the past and posts long since forgotten, let's focus on today. Harrison at one (or pushing 14 months, but who's counting). Right now, he is sleeping in the car, where he invariably gets the best naps. Given that the little darling wakes up every day at 4AM, it figures that he would take his nap in the morning, usually on the way to take Thatcher and Hadley to school. When we get home, I crank up a space heater in the garage, pray that it doesn't catch the house on fire, and frantically try to knock off one item from my ever-expanding to-do list (or watch a TIVO-ed show that I didn't get to see from the night/week/month/year before because I have to go to bed at 9PM).

When not car-napping, the King divides his time between reorganizing my cabinets (see above) and honing his quarterback skills. He finds any ball he can get his hands on--preferably Winston and W's football-shaped treat balls--and works on his passing game. Guess he will never play for Georgia Tech if Paul Johnson sticks around. All bias aside, I think he actually has a pretty good arm!

He is ever the mommy's boy, quick with hugs and often affectionately pats my back as I'm holding him. It is beyond endearing. He enjoys pointing out his tormentors (siblings) and parents whenever you ask him where someone is. Yesterday, he even added "Thatcher" to his speaking repertoire, which heretofore had consisted only of "mama" and "dada."

He's a good boy, and I woudn't trade him for the world. The 4AM wakeup calls on the other hand...