There are so many wonderful things about living with Jesse’s folks.
I’m still trying to figure out how to adequately express my gratitude and appreciation for the incredible graciousness of these people. One bonus in particular is on my mind at the moment:
24/7 access to pictures of (and stories about) Jesse’s childhood.
I mean, I feel like I *know* this guy. Everyone’s full of surprises, of course (and his are delightful–no, it’s not just the newlywed in me talking). But the slightest twitch of his mouth or tilt of his eyebrow gives me a window into pretty much exactly what’s going through his head. Looking through these kid pictures of him, I see the same looks–unbridled joy and excitement, exasperation, focus, boredom. And my personal favorite, the pout.
In spring of 2009, Jesse and I went to Greece. On the way, we had an 8-hour layover in Amsterdam. Jesse’s sister Sandra was also traveling in Europe at the time, and we planned to rendezvous at a cafe in that big city. We decided to meet at a cafe that claimed to serve the best apple crisp in all of the Netherlands… which, when we got there, we realized was every cafe in Amsterdam. After hiring a taxi to take us to the cafe we thought we wanted (only to discover that it was, in fact, closed), we plodded in cold drizzly weather towards the nearest Internet cafe in the hopes of connecting with Sandra. (Turns out it’s a lot harder to microplan without a smart phone.) We were pissed, and cold. Categorically optimistic, Jesse suggested we take a picture of ourselves with our most disgruntled faces so we could illustrate for Sandra our frustration and laugh about it when we found each other.
So here we are:
After several hours of traipsing around the streets of Amsterdam, popping into cafes (not coffee shops–big difference) for sustenance and walking through an open-air market, I had assembled a working understanding of our tourist map and the layout of the old city. So, when we finally caught Sandra on Gmail chat, I got us from our Internet cafe to hers. We celebrated. And ate tomato soup.
Then the other day when I, flipping through old family photo albums, came across a picture of a baby Jesse in his grandma’s arms making the pouty face we had captured in Amsterdam, I about died.
It’s THE SAME FACE!
I have a theory that we really don’t change all that much from infancy to adulthood. I mean, when you’ve got a cranky baby on your hands, it’s usually because he needs to eat, to sleep, to be changed, or to cuddle. It’s not really any different at 25 or 30 or (I can tell you now with professional certainty) 80. Hang out with the in-laws for a while and you’ll see how well this applies to your darling!