Sticky Sweet

"Mama, can I make it FASTER?" she pleaded.
"Just one click, Pollywog. ONE CLICK."

Famous last words, of course.

Her stubby little fingers bumped the electric mixer speed level all the way to 10, and suddenly a hundred thousand drops of wet cookie dough were launched into the deepest recesses of my kitchen, splattering banana pulp, buttermilk, and sugar onto every conceivable surface. There are probably still droplets whizzing through space, bravely venturing where no cookie batter has gone before, searching for a hospitable planet on which to kersplat where the tyrannical arm of the Clorox wipe cannot come to hurt or make afraid--there the dough will be blessed, AMEN.

I lunged through the heavy spray, risking life and limb, really, what with the sticky spray still shooting about, and managed to knock that switch back down to zero. The very second the whir of the mixer wound down into silence, well, that's the second we heard Daddy's key turning the lock. Bug looked at me and I looked at her and I swear to you the only rational thought that went through my head was, "Praises be, oh, praises be -- REINFORCEMENTS HAVE ARRIVED."

And here is what I thought about while I wiped and rinsed those cheeks and counters and cupboards and floor and innocent-bystander-brother who had been minding his own business 6 feet away with a tray full of Cheerios:

The cookies are worth the splatter. And so is she.

Things I am grateful for on Mother's Day and always.

My babies. I don't deserve them for even one second, but I know that I am never so much myself as when I am looking into one of those pairs of baby blue eyes, or covering those soft, round cheeks in kisses. I am lucky beyond words.

Mister Baggins once spit up an entire belly full of curdled milk on my arm while I waited in line at a paper supply store with nary a wipie to be found. (Rookie mistake.) Bug recently told me that of all the characters on Lion King, I most resemble Scar. (We both have brown hair, I guess?) And, you know what? I wouldn't change a moment or a word of it for all the gold in all the world.

The night before Mother's Day while I was at work, Daddy helped Bug craft a poster for me. Titled Mommy, You Are The Best... the poster was filled with hand-colored scribbles and genuine answers from Bug about all the things I am best at. I'm grateful for a man in my life who is such a thoughtful, hands-on sort of Daddy, the sort of Daddy who buys finger paints to stamp my poster with baby hands and feet, the sort of man who put Bug's little crayon-clutching fist in his own hand to write all her own answers down, and perhaps most of all, the sort of Daddy who understands that when Bug answers the aforementioned statement with Mommy, you are the best eater, that maybe that particular attribute would be best left off the Mother's Day poster, all indications of its accuracy notwithstanding.

Happy Mother's Day to every nurturing, gentle soul out there helping to fill this sometimes scary world my babies are living in with love. We're all in this together.

Yambs. Not the sweet potato kind.

Last week, before the weather around here reverted back to freezing, Stacey and I took the kids to Wheeler Farm for a picnic.  The point of the exercise, besides getting out of the house, was to really wear my kids out so they'd take a good nap. I had to work a full graveyard that night, so I desperately needed to sleep while they did. 

After a couple of hours in the sunshine, it was mission accomplished! I had a hard time keeping Mister awake long enough to drive the 3 miles back to our house.

 Don't worry, Bug has only been eating PB&J sandwiches independently for like 2 years, but she still manages to smear them from hairline to chin.

I had really talked up how great it would be to feed the ducks. Bug was in to it, but when I told him he couldn't eat the stale bread himself, Mr. Baggins just wanted to suck on his fingers.

He's trying to find the right moment to lean back, casually stretch, and wrap his arm around Scar-bug's shoulders. Too bad his arms are too stubby.

Rather than making eye contact, Paddy's dad used to look off to the side of the person he was talking to sometimes. You can see that a certain Bug inherited the trait from her Grandpa Jim. I have no idea what she is looking at with such a silly grin.

Cows licking a bowl full of who-knows-what. Baggins is jealous.

Bug couldn't believe there were actual baby sheep to look at. She still very often says her Ls with a Y sort of sound, so she kept shouting "YAMBS! YAMBS!" which made me laugh.

Also, how did her left leg disappear from this picture so completely?

This horse wanted to chomp on Mister's head like an apple. Luckily, he just knocked him into the dirt.

We are desperate for the weather to warm back up so we can hit the outdoors on a more regular basis. I've been tossing around the idea of a completely unplugged summer wherein Bug says goodbye completely to her friends Doc McStuffins and that piratey Jake in favor of, you know, humans and sunshine. Once it's toasty outside, it'll be goodbye folding laundry time, HELLO WHEELER FARM!

Weekend in Santo Jorge

After a couple of failed attempts to enjoy a quick family vacation earlier in the year, we finally found a weekend we could escape the cloudy skies at home for warmer pastures. We loaded up in our car and headed south for the desert.

We were lucky enough to convince Grammy Lu and Bunk to join us. They are endlessly patient when traveling with our littles. They didn't mind when Bug realized that saying she had to go potty = getting out of the car, and proceeded to repeat herself every 10 miles. They didn't mind when I had to feed Mister half a bag of animal crackers to keep him quiet, or when we spent three hours every afternoon flopping about the condo like slugs while the kiddos slept. It was fantastic.

One of our favorite outings while we were there was a quick trip to Pioneer Park. Turns out the Pioneer Park in St. George is full of beautiful red rocks and sand, as opposed to the Pioneer Park in Salt Lake City, which is full of homeless men and drug dealers.

I've always been wary of that tank top's propensity to make me look 4 months pregnant when I'm not. I bought it even though it was a size larger than I normally wear since it was on clearance for FIVE DOLLARS.
Fears confirmed. It's going in the maternity bin.

Can you even...? (P.S. Other shoe was safely stored in Daddy's pocket)

Bug scrambled all over the rocks searching for the perfect place to shout "Vinyah!", which, being translated, is the African chant at the beginning of Lion King.

Mr. Baggins has a particular affinity for both of his grandpas, but doesn't seem to care much for either one of his grandmas, at least until he has had some time to warm up. Grammy Lu worked for hours, DAYS even, to get this kind of interaction.

By the end of the weekend, though, she was the only one he trusted to lead him into the pool for splash time.

Bug had no such reservations about the water.

Daddy and Bunk engaged in a classic round of Throw The Kid

Back at our rented condo, Bug got the whole spa treatment.

SPOILED.

The weekend was relaxing, slow-paced, and absolutely perfect. We came home well-rested with our skin tingling from the sunshine and a Daddy who is ONE YEAR OLDER.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Would that every girl could be so lucky.

Someone needs an imaginary friend.

My daughter is good at all kinds of things, but if you wanted to know, entertaining herself is not one of them. Bug likes social things. Bug likes interacting. And at three years old, Bug really, really likes to discuss every possible step of every potential activity of our day AT LENGTH.

Don't get me wrong, I love chit-chatting with my little princess. I am proud of her extensive vocabulary and complex thought processes. She amazes me every day.

Also, she is exhausting.

Today, we ran some errands (and discussed those errands before, during, and after each stop.) We straightened up a little (and talked about that, too.) We talked about breakfast and we talked about snack time and I endured a several minute-long soliloquy from her about the proper way to put on and then wear her shoes, which she has taken to referring exclusively to as iceskates. (Icescapes, to be precise.) After enough conversation to tire even me--which, trust me, as an award-winning chatterbox myself is impressive--I gave Bug new instructions. I told her it was time to play by herself in her room.

If Bug's life was accompanied by a movie soundtrack, you would have heard those screeching violins from Psycho in the background to illustrate the terribleness of that suggestion. Apparently to my social butterfly, the fragments "by yourself" and "in your room" absolutely negate any and all pleasantness implied by the aformentioned suggestion to "play".

Nevertheless, I am the type of Mommy who feels that playing alone is a valuable skill to know. (Also valuable: having ten minutes wherein I can load the dishwasher without having a detailed conversation about loading the dishwasher.) I was a talkative kid, for sure, but I also used to set my alarm for the middle of the night just so I could quietly finish my Nancy Drew mystery without anyone bothering me. And so, alone playtime was enforced.

I peppered her with suggestions as I herded her into her bedroom. Your tea set! Your books! Your princess dress ups! Your art set! I reminded her.

So, any guesses what my daughter decided to do with her unrestricted alone time in her bedroom full of books and toys?

The contestant who answered "climbed into her bed and sulked" should please come to the lower concourse to claim their prize.

A note to my future daughter-in-law

Hello, dear,

I hear you like my son. I don't blame you a bit, my dear, because he is wonderful. He chose you because he thinks that you are wonderful, too, and I am so happy. I promise to be warm and kind and excited, and I will do my best to be a very good mother-in-law. I don't have a mother-in-law around, and therefore don't have a vivid example of the dos and don'ts, but in general I hear that I should go easy on the advice. Done. This shall be my mantra: do whatever you want and I'm sure it'll be great. Except this: don't put tuna in a casserole dish for any reason. There. Now you and I will be fast friends, I'm sure. May I ask a favor?

Please, be gentle with my mother heart and remember: he used to be mine.

One day, I held the wiggly, squirmy weight of him on my lap and I saw the light from the window behind him fall on his round baby cheeks and he was mine. It was me he waited not so patiently for in the morning, chubby little fingers wrapped around the crib rails and a brilliant smile when I opened the door.

Before he was yours, he was mine and I lifted him out of his high chair with Cheerios stuck to his belly. I saw the way his baby eyelashes closed onto his soft, pale cheeks when he fell asleep.

He scratched my face in his eagerness to play, grabbing at my lips and nose and eyeballs while he laughed and screeched in delight.

I clipped those sharp fingernails. I washed his bum and wiped his nose and blew raspberries on his belly. I sang the Piggy song and tickled his toes and laughed about how the second one is shorter than the third.

I watched him take his first awkward Frankenstein steps and he was nobody else's but mine.

And now maybe he is yours but not entirely. The part of him, the part with the little rosebud lips and the way he waggles his head back and forth to make us laugh, that part isn't yours because it wasn't his to give.

It's mine.

And even though I am so excited to have you near, I'm going to keep just that one little part all to myself.

All my love,
His Mama

(P.S. I guess my feelings on tuna casserole really aren't all that strong. Do whatever you want. I'm sure it will be great.)

Poop makes startling entrance, abrupt exit in local home

A local woman suddenly found her home covered in human feces after an unexpected stomach bug afflicted her one year old last week, sources say.

Mister Baggins, age one, cried from his crib/poop cage in the wee hours of a morning last week before spending the next 3 days alternately vomiting all over his clean clothing and making a complete mockery of diaper after diaper. According to the boy's parents, days of force-feeding him Pedialyte, repeatedly washing his bedding, and subjecting him to excessive baths have resulted in a full recovery.

"I didn't realize what a sad little grump he was being while he was sick, " his mother stated. "It wasn't until he was feeling better that I remembered why we like him so much."

"He smells a lot better now," added the boy's father, noting that the child's diapers seemed to have magically regained their ability to absorb excrement in the days since the illness. 

Experts are unsure the cause of the outburst. Residents are warned to keep plenty of carpet cleaner and Clorox 2 on hand in case what is being called a "stomach bug" should unexpectedly strike.

Mister Baggins, fully recovered. No wonder I love him so much.