A photographer came to the house yesterday to take some pictures for the article the paper is doing. She told me to just go about my daily business and pretend she wasn’t there. Riiiiiiight. I am not of the Reality TV generation. I notice people with large cameras in my dirty kitchen. At one point she asked what I would be doing if she weren’t there and, as if on cue, Asa wet his pants. (No pictures of the Lightning McQueen to Thomas the Tank Engine underwear switch.) She took a lot of photos of Asa playing with the Leadville ore cart, which was great. I’m hoping the paper just uses an Asa pic. Three year-old portrait, check. I’d thought we were going to go to a nearby park where I’d pretend to run for her, but she said it was too hot for that. It is still in the 90s here (For the love of Pete!!), but if you tried to avoid running in the heat and humidity in Texas, you’d really have to just move. My backyard has a nice overgrown jungle aesthetic going, so it might actually look like Asa and I are running on trails if she uses any of the outdoor shots she took. I told her we’d be headed to the pool later and her eyes lit up with interest. I told her she couldn’t come. Improptu bathing suit shots for the newspaper — in the saggy baggy bathing suit I got when I was pregnant with Asa. Um, no thank you.
Some race reports