Who's Number 1?

Talk about your rhetorical questions! The shirt does not lie.


Behold the joy of pointing. Watch me point as I inquire what the big glowing light hanging from our ceiling is. Watch me point as I see birds in our backyard. Watch me point as I insist Dad carry me to a particular spot, and then directly back again. Watch me point at Mom whenever Dad asks where that poopie-nappie smell is coming from.

Yes, just call me Pointy McPoint. I can't get enough of it these days.

Of course, you gotta take good care of a precious pointing finger like mine. My favourite tip: I like to coat it in honey and soak it in virgin goats milk to ensure I optimise my maximum pointing ability (while also maintaining a lush and radiant skin tone... bonus!) Of course, that also makes my pointing finger uncontrollably tasty.

Mmmmm... pointingly delicious.

Even Dad tried to get a taste of my pointing finger, but I quickly tried to hide it in hopes he would get confused and leave me alone.

Silly Dad, no finger here.

Eventually, I decided to record the total awesomeness of my pointing finger for complete historical posterity and foreverness. (And to maybe one day get my own Wikipedia page.) And since you can't trust the paparazzi to take a good finger photo these days (when is the last time you saw a photo of Britney Spears' pointing finger, hmmmm?) I took it upon myself to take the snap.

First, I had to discreetly steal the camera from Dad:

I told Mom my ninja skills would come in handy one day! And to think, she wanted me to learn ballet.

Then, I had to get the lighting and the angle just right.

SNAP!


Not being able to read the instruction manual may have hindered my ability to get exactly the shot I wanted, but c'mon... I'm not even 1 yet. I bet Ansel Adams didn't take his first picture until after he was toilet trained. He obviously didn't have his artistic priorities straight.

Peace out!

Saskia.