Can you figure out what’s missing?

Today we participated in a triathlon. Toby was the only one with a number on his chest but, trust me. Spectating a triathlon this long with a four year old to entertain is a sport for Mommy too. Toby did this race at the last minute -  mostly for fun and to support a friend during his first race.

The course

Body marking. Numbers on the arm, ages on the leg.

Chip retrieval.

Waiting for the race to start.

More cowbell. Please.

Toby's first tri and first shaved leg.

Almost time.

To wait....

and wait.. he eventually gets in about 40 minutes behind Trevor.

Mugging.

Waiting for dad to surface.

Go Dad!

Toby finishes the 12 mile bike ride.

Trevor crosses the finish line.

Waiting for Dad to come back from the 5k in the "treehouse".

Trevor recovers on the cold grass.

Toby nearing the finish.

A very nice finish!

It’s easy for me to look at Robbie and wonder if I made any genetic contribution to him, whatsoever. He looks and, by all accounts, acts just like Toby at that age. Then sometimes he’ll surprise me by doing or liking something that is so “me” and not Toby at all.

I tease (nag) Toby pretty often about how I’m not actually documented in any of our family adventures unless I literally hand him the camera with an order to take a picture of me. Recently I’ve been experimenting with overcoming this by just giving Robbie the camera instead. So far, it’s working out pretty well. Once he gains the upper body strength to handle an SLR, maybe I’ll start contracting him out.

Below is a picture he took of me when he asked to play with my pocket camera. That composition? That’s all my genes, baby!

It’s recently come to our attention there’s a fourth occupant in our house. We chose not to put him on the census because, while he’s noisy enough to be a kid, he’s actually a mouse.

Two nights ago he woke us both up as he frantically molested an old PowerBar wrapper that had fallen down behind our vanity drawers. What a PowerBar wrapper was even doing in my bathroom, and especially a drawer, I will never know. That’s just one of the unsolved mysteries you sign on for when you get married and have kids.

So last night we set out two traps in our bathroom; a glue trap in one corner and the tried and true “back breaker” mouse trap inside the vanity. As I was brushing my teeth, mental pictures of a mouse actually being caught in either (and especially the glue trap) started playing out in my mind.

“Toby,” I said “If we actually catch something in either trap, I’m exercising Girl Privilege.”

“Girl what?”

“Girl Privilege. I do not handle dead rodents. It’s part of the unwritten contract you signed on for when you married a girl and not a hairy guy.”

This morning I woke up to find a dead, stiff and slightly bloated grey mouse just beside the classic trap. I was grateful it had died quickly…and, let’s be honest, that it hadn’t woken me up with it’s frantic squealing.

“Looks like you got yourself a  mouse, babe.” I yelled to the bedroom. I was accepting zero ownership in this gruesome undertaking.

He got up and came to inspect. “I don’t know how you can claim Girl Privilege” he complained. “What’s that supposed to mean anyway?”

“It  means if I were the kind of person that didn’t mind picking up dead rats, I wouldn’t be the kind of girl you’d wanted to marry. ”

“Good point” he grumbled, and picked up the mouse with a plastic sack.

Mom, this is my planet. I share it with everyone. Can I have a pom-pom for how good I share?