Fire Station

Last week The Professor took B and C to the local fire station for a tour organized by a friend of ours. The baby and I elected to stay home, as we had had a bad night, and inexplicably J also decided to stay home. He acted nervous about being around the trucks, even though, in the manner of small boys everywhere, he loses his dang mind every time he sees one on the road. So he played quietly upstairs, the baby and I snoozed on the couch, and my husband took our other two to visit the local firemen and their trucks.

(Note: This may have actually been a couple of weeks ago. I honestly have no idea. The passage of time is an elusive and intangible thing for me. I have been stuck at home for days with four very sick kiddos, including a precious baby whose very cry is hoarse, for the love, so forgive me if I get details confused. Or fail to brush my teeth until the late afternoon. Or sob uncontrollably.)

Anyway! The fire station! A few pictures. In which my daughter discovers the art of making funny faces.

In case you're wondering how J took all of this: When his siblings came home bearing official firefighter stickers and rubber duckies, he burst into tears and demanded to be taken to the fire station.

Naturally.