If it was up to them, we would have strapped the tiniest Christmas sapling to the roof.

On your mark. Or, in her case, ahead of the mark.

While reading The Story of the Root Children to Winnie last night, she said of the little blonde sprites, “that’s Winnie. I a root child.” I can’t think of a more appropriate label for our budding naturalists.

She left her crib a few months before two. A year later, for old times’ sake, she likes to climb inside, feel the familiar flannel beneath her feet, and remind me that she is still my tiny baby.

On a whim, we crossed the water, and found a narrow highway of plantations near Williamsburg. President John Tyler’s homestead was just up the road, but we chose to stop on an unassuming gravel road straddling corn and soybean crops. Wide open spaces bring them incomparable delight.

Some days, particularly the chilly, rainy sort, our cottage seems to be brimming with tiny T-Rex ferocity. 

A morning to ourselves at an early 1900s estate with distant shipyard views. Winnie was quick to claim the “castle.”

Gone are the early, fatigue-laden months…ever closer to meeting the boy with the cupid’s bow lips…

“I a pilot. I fly red jet. I do flips and fly upside down.” Winnie, age 2

The pilots’ first door to door experience. Winnie trooped inside the first three homes, made sure to grab an extra tootsie roll for her brother, and Harry Boy was determined to keep up with all the other sugar crazed ghouls and ghosts.