Picture this: I'm sitting in church today during the passing of the sacrament. As Georgia had decided she just had to nurse right as the sacrament prayer began, I'm trying to discreetly nurse her under a blanket while still in the chapel (or in our case, the gym:P). Because I'm wearing a dress, I'm nursing from the top down. Right as the little deacon passes me the bread (I'm sitting on the end of the row), Georgia decides to come up for air and begins to flail, pulling down the blanket. Meanwhile, Ezra is sitting next to me, trying to pull my dress up my thigh, for reasons unknown. He had previously removed my shoes. I'm pretty sure the poor deacon got an eyeful, no matter which way he was looking. Welcome to my life.
Ezra has become quite the backseat driver. He informs us many times per car ride that "we're going fast." He also likes to repeat over and over, "watch out for the cars!" I have no problem with this-in fact, I think it's kind of cute. My problem begins when Ezra climbs into the front seat, locks all the doors, and insists that he "wants to drive." Give it about another 14 years, kid, and then we'll talk.