Little sayings

The haze of summer has left me lacking in blogging mojo. Here are a few funny/cute/embarrassing things about having a three year old that I'm trying really hard to remember, particularly today when I barely like her at all. (Kidding. But you should have seen the way that girl lost her mind at the park today. It was vaguely reminiscent of the Las Vegas incident in terms of volume, but with the addition of loud cries about how she doesn't want a Mommy anymore. There is nothing that makes me feel better about my parenting skills than making the long march away from the playground to the car while she arches her head back, wailing at the top of her lungs.) Anyway, for your viewing pleasure:

*  After feeling mildly guilty about the amount of Doc McStuffins my kid was watching, we decided to go for a (mostly) unplugged summer. That means that Bug doesn't get to watch any television shows at all during the day (unless Mama went to work and Daddy lets her watch a show on the iPad before bed, and do you know what? No judgement here! Sometimes a parent just needs to sit on the toilet for two seconds in peace.) Anyway, it's been basically a non-issue, and I've been pleasantly surprised at how she doesn't seem to even miss it at all. Every morning we have this three line conversation:

"Mama, is it summer?"
"Yup."
"So we don't watch shows, huh?"

And that's it! It's over! It's been awesome, and allows Mister Baggins much more uninterrupted time to tackle Bug to the ground.


*  We went shopping the other day at a discount clothing place that has super ghetto smaller-than-average-sized carts. (You know the ones.) Bug climbed on to the side of it to hang on (safety first, I always say.) I hadn't put Mister into the seat yet, though, and the cart didn't weigh enough to absorb the addition of a three year old redhead all on one side. It started to tip, and while it didn't topple over entirely, a surprised Bug landed flat on her bottom. And that's when she began loudly announcing this to me over and over again:

"Mama! My bum hurts! Smooch it better! SMOOCH MY BUM! SMOOCH IT!"

Oh yeah, baby. Parenting is so stylish.


*  My kid used a pantyliner as a super hero mask. Yep. Of course she did.


*  Every morning immediately after breakfast, Bug starts bugging me about getting "a surprise", which is actually a package of Smarties she can receive before bed if she does a truly excellent job in remembering not to suck her thumb during the day. I shake my head, wondering where she got that impatience from. Then I go check the delivery tracking status of my online purchase for the 67th time.


* In her daily prayers, my daughter has begged for the safety of each of the following things on at least one occasion:

- her yogurt
-Jesus (I bet He's doing OK)
-her sippy cup of water
-her bandaids
-her cat (Note: she doesn't have a cat.)


This girl. I swear.

Low-hanging Fruit, or, How to ensure your dog gets plenty of Vitamin A.

Over the course of a typical day, there's a whole lot of nonsense coming out of Bug's mouth at a fairly consistent clip. What can I say? She's three, and she has a much larger vocabulary than she does the logic to wield it appropriately. For example, she recently had a full-blown tears-and-snot, hiccups-and-flushed-cheeks-style meltdown because she wanted me to somehow remove the already consumed dinner from her gastrointestinal tract because, get this, it was making her leg hurt. I double dog dare you to keep a straight face while your daughter flails on the grounds wailing at the top of her lungs,

"MY FOOD FROM NANA'S IS REAWY HURTING MY YEG! I WANT IT OUT!"

So anyway, it shouldn't be surprising that I don't always take her statements in a literal sort of way. Turns out, though, occasionally she's right on the money.

Such was the case earlier today when she ran up to me, breathless, and managed to squeak out the obviously hilarious, "Mama, Mister Baggins gave Lupe a potato!" before dissolving entirely into peals of laughter.

Why yes, that is my yellow lab eating a sweet potato, which was given to her by my one-year-old via the very low window in our dining area.

Doesn't he look proud of himself? And that's Lupe with the photo bomb behind him, 

perched on top of her dog house.

A boy and his dog, I suppose.

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.