Ahhh...baby Clay.
A little TOO much of baby Clay, hence the cute lil' sticker.
Sweet little cheeks.
All 4 of them.
A wee bit older now and he's already mastered the Blue Steel while simultaneously digging something from the recesses of his ear.
Just plop a couple of pigtails on '1986 Easter Clay' and call him Mary Martin.
Am I right or am I right?
Oh the socks...
and the precious bow tie...
and the Peter Pan collar...
and the interior of the castle he seems to be standing in...
Why hello pre-pubescent Clay.
Love the knock-off Tevas.
And color-blocked Umbros.
And braces.
And thick, muscular legs.
Yummy.
And since I currently have no other pictures of adolescent Clay, let's skip ahead a few years...
Ah.
Much better.
Dashing, isn't he?
And hubs isn't lookin' too bad either.
Love the coveralls.
Again, yummy.
And because I feel that far too few people on the earth were witness to hubs afro days,
I give you...
Afro Clay.
Is there any wonder why I pounced on that?
I know, right?
Tan and toned, with a head FULL of hair and a fabulous decorator to boot.
I mean, just look at those beautifully styled shelves.
And that necklace.
And the way he holds that hair dryer.
Sheesh, how'd I get so lucky?
Happy birthday week to you, hubs.
And if it makes you feel better,
you don't look a day over 27.
Swear it.
