Hansie. Mette. Biking.

My little Hansie boy hasn’t been in any particular hurry to master the English language. But that has only served to make the things he does say charm me all the more. For example, when something goes amiss he is fond of saying, “Ah man!” (Which he first learned from Swiper the Fox, but has taken for his own.) He also will occasionally laugh about something or other and then, shaking his head, say to himself, “So funny.” And the way he says pumpkin (which he does quite regularly now that several are sitting on our front porch) is never the same. And adorable every time. “Punkneen” was what I heard last.

He is just as pleasant of a little fella as I’ve ever met.

Almost as pleasant is his sister Mette. . . .

The other day she was screaming wildly when it was time to be napping. I told her that I would have to shut her door if she couldn’t stop yelling (she likes to have her door left partially ajar). “Well,” she moaned woefully, “can I yell when I wake up?”

Yes. Of course dear. Then you can go right back to screaming and yelling.

But she also tells me she loves me “SO MUCH” all of the time – rubbing her chubby, little hand along my cheek and jaw adoringly as she does.

And the other day she came and stood in front of me with one arm draped across her eyes. “Mom,” she said. “Guess where I am.”

I was a bit confused for a minute. Surely she knew that I knew she was right in front of me?

But no. She didn’t seem to. (She couldn’t see me. How could I possibly see her?)

“Are you in the kitchen?” I asked.

“Haaahaa!” she squeeled. “No!”

“Are you on my bed?”

“No!” (More delight at how fooled I was.)

“Are you . . . standing right in front of me?”

“Yes!” She flung her arm away in sheer glee.

And there she was.

Little trouble-making girl.

I love her.

In other news:

After some debating, we opted to take the entire family to one of Abe’s recent mountain bike races.

I love his races. Up in the mountains. Fall. Excitement. And this one was no exception, but it was incredibly dusty, and very windy, and that combined with sunblock and kids missing naps meant everyone was quite exhausted by the end.

Summer’s face sums it up perfectly.

It’s weird to me how quickly we have moved from Abe’s first year on the team – when we had to drive him to every practice and race, and we worried about him getting lost on the trails, and about leaving him with these confident senior boys who were driving their own selves to practices and skillfully removing bikes from racks, etc. . . . to . . . Abe being one of those boys. It’s his final season! It’s rewarding and exciting to see how he’s grown. But I will miss this being part of our life when he finishes up in a few weeks!

Somewhat related perhaps is this small snippet I jotted down late the other night when Mike was out of town for work, and the house was all quiet and sleeping, except for one thing:

It’s nearly midnight. Abe wakes at 6:30. I know he’s exhausted. His schedule is packed. He rarely gets eight hours of sleep. And yet, I hear him up there — in his room, a staircase away — playing his harmonica. I should call up to him -- tell him to get to bed, remind him he needs more sleep; but he’s playing God Be with You Till We Meet Again. And somehow it’s slipping and pushing me along forward in time. And I feel a little teary and don’t really want him to stop.

The end.

Except for a few last pictures. (Penny when she helped me scout out the spot for taking Abe’s dance pictures. And Anders and Summer . . . in a box.)