Sweetie Reidie is 8 today. Below his NMK birth announcement.
Grandpa has a brand new Sweetie today — Reid Fisher, third son of Jill and Byron. Reid and Fisher are both fifth generation family names.
The little guy was two weeks early, but weighed in at 7 pounds 3 ounces, and is 19 inches long. He and his mother are both doing fine.
Photo taken about three hours after Reid’s birth.
Each of the six of Grandpa’s Sweeties have, oddly enough, been born on days of the month that are prime numbers: 7, 13, 13, 19, 23 and 31. Thought you’d want to know.
Of course, born since is grandchild seven, Sweetie Sam, now 3, born on an unprime 25.
And a newer photo of Reid, taken one week ago.
The oldest of The Sweeties is now a teenager. It ought to be a national holiday.
That’s him in the middle below, taken last month with his brothers.
My daughter Emily is on a business trip. My granddaughter Kiley misses her mom.
She is the star to my tree
The snow to my plow
I try singing without her
But I don’t know how
She’s part of my duet
We’re jelly and jam
If I am the turkey,
She is the ham
I know my rhyming
is pretty bad
But I hope this last line
Makes you glad:
Love left with you
And love will come back with you
And love will wait here for you
All the hours in between.
By my Granddaughter Kiley, 11.
Every girl, if I’m not mistaken, wants to feel pretty. Maybe all the time. Maybe just once in a while. Maybe hardly ever. But our appearances matter to us. We want to impress people. We want to look cute, or at least clean. So next time you see a girl in a pretty outfit, look closer. If she’s not smiling, she’s not confident. If she’s not smiling, make her smile.
By my granddaughter Kiley.
I say what I say
I say what I say
it never comes out that way
I do what I do
I do what I can
There’s always a flaw in my plan
I type what I type
I type what I want
It ends in a different font
I am who I am
I am the best I can be
At least that part works
And shows beautiful me.
My not quite 11-year-old granddaughter Kiley wrote this for her blog.
Letting go is hard. Tomorrow is our community garage sale, and I finally have to say goodbye to my old baby dolls. I don’t really care about the dolls. Nor about the old VHS tapes, or even the stuffed animals. It’s the memories buried inside those things I want. The memories that make me want to turn back the clock. Back when I was little. Little enough to fit in the stroller we’re selling.
Four years ago then 8-year-old Mack appeared to have some Mephistophelean help in his 5K.
Or has his mother said, “Whoever assigned the bib numbers for this race obviously knows Mack.”