night night time

I was putting Sloane to bed tonight, which is one of my favorite times of the day. We have a little routine. We read three books, usually Dora-related although I try to sneak in some of my favorites too. Then we sing three songs starting with Good Night Moon, the song Tagg and I made up years ago and has since become a family favorite. 

Sloane and I made up our own verse so it's her song too: 
   Good night moon.
   You're here too soon. 
   I'm not ready to go night-night. 
   I'll get my jammies, we'll sing some songs,
   give everyone a kiss good night.
(at which point she gives me like a dozen open-mouth, adorable, sloppy, toddler fish kisses). 

We usually follow that up with You Are My Sunshine, and then Twinkle Twinkle or Soft Kitty.

Tonight was a little different. We finished Good Night Moon and then Sloane told me to get in the bed, her little tiny toddler bed which is already full of crap - blankets, dolls, animals, books. But I thought she wanted to cuddle so I curled right up. So sweet. Incredibly adorable. I can't wait for the snuggles. And then she slid out of the bottom end of the bed and headed for the door. 

Me: Where are you going, Sloaney-boo?

Sloane: It's night-night time, mommy. Sleepy time. I turn off light and close door. 

Totally ready for snuggles and cuteness, I'm thinking this is the most adorable thing EVER. Until she turned off the light, and closed the door. 

And then left. 

Apparently she was putting me to bed for a change. 

Well played, dear girl. Well played.

it's a comfort thing

Sloane likes to put the tassels of her blanket in her nose and twirl them. It's her little comfort thing. Part gross, part adorable. We've tried to put a stop to it but, in the grand scheme of things, it seems kind of harmless. And, let's face it, sometimes you just need something that makes you happy, no matter how odd, adorable, or cute it is.

One of Tagg's pre-school classmates turned five today and is graduating to the kindergarten class. He was talking about the bus and "real" school and seemed excited about it, but a little sad he was moving on so I thought I'd ask him about it. Here's how that brilliant idea went down...

Me: Tagg, do you like school?

Tagg: No.

Me: Really? Why not?

Tagg: Because I like Nickelodeon.

Me: What?!

Tagg: I'd rather go to Nickelodeon school.

Me: Mayday. No more cartoons in the morning, or he'll be graduating from VH1 high. 

shoplifting

The kids and I were meeting our old nanny at the mall for dinner and she was running a little late, so we took the opportunity to scoot down to Naartjie (one of my all-time favorite shops) to get a birthday present for my niece. In just 10 minutes, Sloane had managed to destroy several precisely stacked display tables of pants and shirts, rip the tags off about 3 items of clothing and peel the size stickers off another half dozen. This is while I’m trying to look for proper sizes in a matching outfit on the sale rack, a borderline impossible feat, while Tagg is running laps back and forth to the front of the small store. 

And then he doesn’t come back. Or answer when I call him. Panic. I’m running around the store, enlisting the clerks to help find my lost son – which they did in about 30 seconds. Apparently the front window is a favorite hiding place for errant kids. Completely frazzled, I pay for the gift along with a few other things I couldn’t live without and we head off to the restaurant.

As I’m pulling Sloane out of the stroller, I notice a pair of pants that were tucked under her bum. Size 3-6 months. She’s shoplifting at 2 years of age. And not even for the right size stuff! Our nanny burst into laughter and agreed to watch the kids while I did a walk of shame back to the store. As I passed the stroller, I noticed a pant leg with a tag hanging out of the bottom. 

No she didn’t, I think.  

Yes, yes, she did. The entire stroller basket was stuffed to the brim with probably 40 pairs of pants and shirts in all sizes. So now my walk of shame is complete, as I hurry down the mall with an armload of stolen merchandise and, disgraced, hand the pile of clothes back to the same clerk with the condescending smirk who just helped me find my lost son in the window.

I will be withdrawing my application for mother of the year tomorrow. 

And, seriously, if she's going to shoplift I need to at least make sure she's stealing the right size stuff!

family photo smackdown

Our favorite photographer, Jodi at A Yummy Life, has been on maternity leave this year. Tragic for us. Great for her and her lovely new baby girl. We were lucky enough to snag a coveted out-of-hibernation photo shoot for today and I spent too many hours and hundreds of dollars tracking down the perfect set of outfits, perfectly color matched but not toooo matchy, hand-picked to contrast with the scenery, and designed to flatter all of us. I have visions of brilliance in my head.

Our day started at 6-ish AM, a little earlier than our usual Saturday (or any day) schedule. We had soccer at 8. It was cold. Tagg was basically the only player on their team so he ran ALL day. Then the kids went to Nana and Papa's while I did a long, SLOW, training run for next week's half marathon. Then we went home to change clothes for a trip to the pumpkin patch with Sloane's birth family which was wonderful, and then we ran home for our third costume change of the day to do pictures at 5:30.

Needless to say, the kids were, after this crazy jam-packed day and no naps...uncontrollable. Even though we bribed them with french fries and M&M's, they wanted to run, jump in the mud (remember the part where I said HUNDREDS?! the pants were dirty in 10 minutes!), hit each other with sticks (aka, light sabers)...anything but stand in front of a camera and smile. It was off the hook, and not in a good way.

So we're trying to do one more family photo. Just one. The leaves behind us are brilliant with fall colors - bright yellow, some rich evergreens, the actual sunset. This is a photographer's DREAM setting, with some professional models. My kids are running hither and yon, like they've become instantly deaf, ADD, ADHD and are just insane. We finally gather them in for a cute, cute, cute family photo with this great light and backdrop, but Tagg is still fidgeting. Scott bends down, Tagg jumps up and - BAM! A bloody, broken nose dramedy is in the house! Yep. Scott yells the f-word and folds over like he's been punched in the nuts. Tagg starts crying like he's been punched in the head. I hear what sounds like water dripping and immediately know that Scott's nose is broken and bleeding. Sloane dashes off toward the nearest mud puddle because she knows no-one is paying attention to her when there's blood and swearing involved. And the poor photographer is mortified watching this train wreck unfold in front of her.

Fast forward a few minutes. Scott has diaper wipes shoved up his broken nostril and is using the rest to clean his hands and face. Tagg says, " Daddy can you kiss my head better? You hurted it with your face." Scott kisses his head and says "I'm sorry I hurt your head with my face, buddy" while he has a diaper wipe hanging out of his nose (which Tagg thinks is hilarious).  Tagg says, "Daddy, you squirted your nose on my head, but I winned you." Yes, Tagg, we all think you "winned" Daddy - poor, swollen, broken-nosed, in-pain Daddy - on this one. I can only hope that Jodi got some awesome pictures of this reality family moment. Seriously?! How does this happen!?

But later this evening, Tagg caressed Scott's nose and gave it a get-well kiss and said, "Daddy, I see your nose is fixed back together again." And he's right. It is. I hope the family pictures turn out but even if they don't, this moment is a keeper.

the swear jar

The Swear Jar

Is it bad to have a swear jar when you’re four? I’m guessing that’s a "yes." And yet another reason why I will not be winning the Mother of the Year trophy. I picked the kids up from Nana and Papa’s house on Saturday. They were starving. I was trying to cram too many errands in a 24 hour period than are humanly possible. So I figured fast food would be in order. They could eat in the car (against one of my cardinal rules) while I drove to the grocery store, and hopefully we could avoid a major meltdown in the produce section. I was visualizing this detailed gameplan when I realized I needed to decide which burger joint was getting our business.

Me: “Tagg, what do you want for lunch?”

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie.”

Me: Long Pause of Disbelief. WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?!?!

“Um, what?”  

Please, please let him say PUMPKIN smoothie. PUMPKIN smoothie…

Tagg: “I want a fuckin’ smoothie, please.”

Me: At least he said please. No wait...this is really bad. Speedy Internal Debate… Do I ignore it? Do I tell him not to say it? Last time I did that he said “dammit” about a hundred times in a row. Do I pretend like he actually said “pumpkin?” I have to say something, right? What do you say to your 4-year-old dropping the f-bomb like it’s any other adjective? And what have my parents been teaching him?! 

So I pulled over and told Tagg that was a very adult word, and not a nice one at that and he shouldn’t use it ever. And if he ever heard an adult use that word he should tell them it’s not a nice word. And then we went and got a fuckin’ smoothie. After I texted Scott to let him know that his son is now fluent with his patented swear word. I mean, I may be “Dammit Girl” but this f-bomb stuff is ALL Scott. I do like to gloat a little bit about that.

And I now have a swear jar for the kids. I put in a quarter every time they drop one of the good ones. The not-so-awful ones get nickles and dimes. Pennies for any time Scott and I drop one of any caliber. At this rate, we might be able to pay for college.

the crack

Kouing Amann. Ever heard of it? Tried it? If not, you should. It's seriously the best pastry EVER. People (some who read this blog) actually have sex dreams about it. Hence the surrogate title "crack" because (a) that's what it's like and (b) who can pronounce Kuoing Amann (queen ah-mahn, fyi, depending on what blog, wiki you look at). 

It's apparently the hot new thing in San Francisco, but here in Utah we've been addicted to the Crack for over five years. Since before Les Madeleines, our local "dealer," was on the Food Network. I was lucky enough to discover "crack" at Les Madeleines in Salt Lake City when their store was across the street from my little ad agency and my partner Barry and I would visit a few times a week for a sugar and caffeine fix. I'm still addicted, super proud Romina the chef is making a name for herself, and happy she's not across the street or I'd be a huge, huge individual.

Had one today. I make this noise when I eat "crack"...mmm, mmm, mmmmmm. It's kind of guttural and has a little passion to it, some decadence and indulgence, just like this dessert. It is ooey-gooey delicious-ness that is worth every single calorie (all 500 of them). And you will be addicted. Trust me.