Finally, evidence

When I leave Shawn Joaquin with Gregg some evenings, I often come home and find odd things around the kitchen. Shredded newspapers, squished but whole oranges, a half full glass of water in the middle of the floor, a stack of broken but carefully arranged crayons, reminiscent of crop circles but slightly less mysterious. Tonight I found bits of a cardboard shipping box in which my new Pilates roller had arrived. A few minutes later, as I began downloading pictures from this weekend's traumatic first Big Boy Haircut Event, I found out just what goes on in my absence.


Clearly, Gregg is teaching Shawn Joaquin to share his fear of cameras.

And, apparently, of pants.