June 2009

We had lots of fun celebrating Claire’s graduation this weekend:


The whole family at Lombardo’s for dinner before the graduation ceremony.


Claire and her pal, Gillian.


Claire and Conal.


The graduate.


The graduate with Mom and Dad.



Conal likes to point out the obvious. When he sees a girl, he points and says, “Girl!” Same with horses, ducks, dogs, cats, me, Owen, Aunt Claire, etc., etc.

Most recently, though, he taken to pointing out men. And it’s cute, except when we’re at, let’s say, the grocery store and he’s pointing out every man he sees. Even the scary I’m-so-mean-I-don’t-even-glance-at-cute-kids men and the equally scary Goth teens-that-look-like-men-only-to-a-toddler.

And, yeah, it gets a little less cute when he has to point at the same man over and over and over while repeating, “Man!” over and over and over until I acknowledge that, yes, indeed, that man is a man.

Then, it just gets a little embarrassing and I find myself saying, “Yup. That’s a man!” and smiling, sheepishly, at those men who happen to look our way. Most of them smile, too. Except for the scary ones.

After the high drama of finding a thoroughly disgusting, engorged and fully embedded tick on Conal’s head last week, we decided to chop off his hair. It will be cooler for him, and it will be easier for us to find any ticks that might be lurking in his locks.

Owen bought the clipper this morning and then we gave Conal his new ‘do. All smiles:


And, just for kicks, here he is saying, “Cheese!”


Conal’s two-year check-up was on Wednesday. He weighed 30lbs (75th percentile) and measured 36in (90th percentile). He’s big, for sure!

After getting his stats, I went online to find a height predictor to see his projected height at age 18. This calculator required me to input his current stats plus my height and Owen’s height, so it was a little different than the rule of thumb that you double a boy’s two-year-old height to find out how tall he’ll be at 18. Based on the calculator, Conal will be 6’2″. So, now we¬† just have to wait 16 years to find out if that’s right!

With a little golf:

Some baseball:

And a bit of hamming it up in a robe:


One hour.


Two days.

June 2007-22

Two weeks.


Two months.


One year.

And today, the Little Jobber turns two. Two years.

Smiling for the camera is no longer a given:


But “funny” faces are almost guaranteed:



He’s fun. And funny.

The best little two-year-old we could ask for.

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