Looks from your dirt-clad, brow-furled, curly-headed, mosquito-bitten, forehead-scarred Son that say, "Momma, why are you taking my picture when I'm trying to tattle-tell on my brother? Why must you sit out here with us and see all that's going on, so I can't embellish my side of the story? Why are you so loud? And weird? And when are you going to start acting like a grown-up instead of an over-grown kid?"
Do you get those looks? I get them. A. Lot.
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