Food and Dirt

The year is sometime in the early 90's. I'm on a road trip with my parents and brother. Maybe we're going to The Dallas on our way to the coast. We do this a lot. We stop for gas and snacks. My dad returns from the gas station with a pile of crappy food and drinks.  He hands me a Slim Jim and says, "Want a petrified elephant trunk?" I laugh hysterically for probably way too long. In fact, I still refuse to eat Slim Jims and laugh hysterically when someone asks why. 
 

Today was a milestone of sorts. Not the landmark ones, like teething and crawling (both of which have happened this week and I'm so tired and can't stand up straight.) She played in dirt. Not just because it was there, but because it was so much fun and I must eat those dead leaves, Mom. The other two girls never played in dirt. Or ate leaves. I tried to be cool about it. Failed. I'm torn between loving her curiosity and vivacity and reading the future inevitable messes and dirt parties. 
 
It took many tries to get this shot-- she won't stop moving long enough for the camera to focus. Did you hear that I'm tired? And did I tell you my dad died? Because those two things are all I can fit in my head right now. 

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