Trace (excuse me, Three)

Certain ethnocentrists have decided my baby's name might perhaps be more "Americanized," so there you have it. Carlton Lee Hollinghead III, called Trace, or Three, by some... I call him Bacon. Or Old Man. Our poor children...


It's probably a good thing that Lee decided he wanted to recarpet instead of refinishing our 45 year old floors. They are accumulating an extra couple years' worth of scratches today. Trace has found out that a child-size chair makes the best walker EVER! You should see him. He's been cruising for a couple of weeks, but hasn't made any free-standing steps yet. But when he pulls up behind one of these chairs, WATCH OUT! I guess it won't be long 'till my nine-month-old old-man-child becomes part of the walking set.





After a brief intermission to rescue him from ingesting crayons (they're nontoxic, but he doesn't have teeth, so I guess I should take them away...), let me expound:





I've always thought of Trace as being an old man trapped in a littl'un's body. His mannerisms suggest a complacency that suggests 'grandfather'... not 'grandson'. But it's well and good that he's so adaptable, so easygoing. Being the youngest of three, it wouldn't do if he were the squeaky wheels his older siblings are. I'm just glad the other two are so in love with him. They appreciate his pudgy cheeks and slow grins as much as I do, so I know he'll never want for devotion.