Wild West

Sometimes I feel like I live in the wild, wild west. You know, where people wear cowboy hats and boots and eat bbq and wrangle cattle. Coming from the Big D, Amarillo has been quite the culture shock. There are no La Madeline's, no Urban Outfitters, no good flea markets, no Cheesecake Factories, no Corner Bakeries, no Marshalls, not even a Super Target! The town sometimes smells like cows, the (free) zoo has mostly farm animals, and I have literally seen ten horses "parked" at the Burger King not ten blocks from my house. I have come to love some of the strange things about my little town. I love the fact that I am three minutes from church. I love the fact that all of my friends and all Eli's friends live within 15 minutes of my house. I love the fact that I can find the best darn chicken fried steak right here. However, I do not love grass fires. Yes, my children and I escaped from a raging prairie fire on Monday. I went to see Brad's new office that is in one of the hospitals where he works. While he was showing me around, the lights flickered and the generator kicked in. Then a man came rushing by Brad and said, "There's a h--- of a grass fire across the street!" We walked outside and in fact, there was a big grass fire in the lot across the street. Monday was an incredibly windy day and it was a valid concern that the sparks might jump the street and catch the hospital on fire. I wish I had taken a picture, but in all the excitement, I forgot. Brad ushered me and the children to the car where we got all buckled in in case we had to make an emergency run for it and then we waited. I couldn't leave because the only street to leave the hospital was the one in front of the building...you know, the one where the fire was raging. Brad, of course, was on the other side of building directing people to turn the sprinklers on and just generally being in charge. The fire department arrived pretty quickly and it was under control in a matter of minutes (although I learned later that it took an hour and a half to put it completely out). I was able to leave and Brad even left about 15 minutes later and met me for lunch. I had brief visions of dunking my petticoat in water and beating out the fire...isn't that was those pioneer women did? It just made me think again that I was living in the Wild, Wild West.

Because of all that excitement, I didn't take a picture of Phoebe on Monday and she turned 11 months old. She's almost a year!! She also pulled up for the very first time on Monday. It was in the bathtub, and she stood there for a few minutes and then fell over...under the water. That kind of freaked her out and made her cry and she really hasn't pulled up since. Well, once in her bed, but those are the only two times. Sometimes I can trick myself into thinking she is younger than she is because she is so lazy. She's done things later than some babies because, you know, it's a lot of work. Maybe I can convince myself and that at the end of next month she is not actually turning one year old. I did take a picture on Sunday because I loved the smocked bubble she was wearing and she's about to outgrow it. Notice her pretty pink patent leather mary janes...she's about to outgrow those, as well. I had to jam her little feet into them, but they sure did look darn cute!