Category Archives: public

Big Kids

Pants like this are not allowed in the house.

V wants to play with the big boys and girls.

This was fairly evident yesterday when I took him to the park. Happily playing with Mummy in the park, we literally were going down dual slides ‘hand-in-hand’. It was like the ideal vision of quality time with Mummy. I was having so much fun. So was he…

And then, the big kids came.

First it was 2 girls, maybe around 10 or so… Screaming and yelling, they ran into the gated playground shouting things like “I’m gonna kill you!” and “You’re such a bitch!”.Ah, tweens…

V was dumbstruck… He toddled in their direction, at first a little tentatively… and then full throttle. He was fascinated by them. All of the loudness. He wanted to be right in there. And they wanted to have nothing to do with him. Because they are big kids. Didn’t even make eye-contact with him, or say ‘hi’ or comment on how cute he is…

Wherever those big kids went, he did too. He climbed higher on the playground than he ever has before, just trying to follow them.

And then 2 boys joined them.

The conversation immediately changed to things like “You’re such a girl” and “I kicked her in the vagina” and “Stop trying to kick me in the vagina”.

I could not believe that they were all throwing the vag about. And they were 10. And they were proud about it too! Like kicking someone in the vagina was the cool thing to do. I feel confused.

Anyways, V thought everything about them was awesome, as evident by the look on his face.

Playtime was done and dinnertime was approaching, we headed out of the playground and meandered in the direction of home. V meandered a little more than I did… Big kids are distracting.

He lagged further and further behind me. I was attempting to do some reverse psychology and so kept walking away saying “Bye bye V! Bye bye!!”.

This was ineffective. It probably would have been more effective on anyone else’s child. He grabbed a toy and ran back towards the playground. He ran up to the fence that surrounded the play area, right near where the big kids were playing. He took that toy and threw it through the fence, so it landed right near where the big kids were.

He said “Uh-oh!”. Ya right. Like that was an accident.

And then he ran into the playground and went and got it. And then he lingered. I had to go and sweep him off his feet and humorously run out of there with him (that means I make funny noises when I run. Noises like “Doodly -doot-dee-doot-dee-doo!! Whee!” and then I feel a wee bit stupid. (I am sure the big kids would agree.)

He was so mad that we left and kept trying to head back there. I eventually distracted him with my expensive phone. He might have put it in his mouth only twice. Don’t tell M. Please.

xoxo a.m.

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Mobile

middle-blog

That baby sheep in the middle, who looks like he's about to make a dash for it? That's mine...

 

The continued adventures of a mobile child…and his mother.

I might as well be his entourage, as I am always behind him. Currently he moves like rapid fire throughout, well, everything.

This afternoon we (I) decided to take a walk with the M.C. and the dog. Now, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have taken the dog, but the poor thing is just so desperate for any attention that he practically attached his own leash and walked himself in his eagerness to spend time with me.

So dog in hand, V and I went a’walkin’.

I had thought just to go around the block.

1/25th of the there… Oh look! Garbage! Mumma! Shall I pick it u…. oh. you got it for me… Thanks mumma.

1/24th of the way there. Oh look! The dog peed right there! Right there, Mumma… I think I’ll go over and walkright on top of it. Oh wait….. WHEEEEEE! I love it when you pick me up and swing me around!

1/23rd of the way. Mumma, there’s something out there in the street, I think I’ll go and get it.

1/22nd of the way. Mumma, there’s something out there in the street, I think I’ll go and get it.

1/21st of the way. Mumma, there’s something out there in the street, I think I’ll go and get it.

1/20th of the way. Mumma, there’s something out there in the street, I think I’ll go and get it.

1/19th of the way. Mumma, there’s something out there in the street, I think I’ll go and get it.

So this short walk that I wanted to take took FOR EVER.

I ended up with so many random pieces of garbage in my pocket. Rather in my pocket than in V’s mouth. And the poor dog. Mid-poop, V did a dash out into the road. I tried a ‘grab, bag and run’. And had no option but to stuff that filled poop-bag into my pocket. V was, at this point, in the middle of the street and giggling madly. Chewie was still in mid-squat but no-longer on the grass (poor dog). I had poo in my pocket. And some random Halloween garbage.

Half way back we encountered an awful combination of other dogs, other people and the road in front of our house. just the sight of this road is enough for Little man to do a fast dash for the middle of it. Collapse when I try and pick him up. Cry. Thrash. Cry some more. And then, at this perfect time, everyone in the neighbourhood walks their dog or turns onto our road and tries to park their car.

But can they?

Nope.

No, they cannot.

And why you ask?

As my child is having a tantrum in the middle of the street, effectively blocking any passage down it.

Hi neighbours! Please watch me parent my child in public! Please don’t judge me too much…

www.clusterflock.org

www.dadcentric.com

And if you are, go to the above sites and judge them too….

 

 

 

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The Ladies

ladies-blog

I know she only has one arm... sometimes the Ladies room is just that dangerous...

Things I did today for the first time….

Got poop stuck under one of my fingernails. And no, it was not mine. In 17 months, this was the first time it has happened. How it hasn’t, no idea…. however, lately he has become extremely thrashy. Like his father, mid-90’s. So genetics. Ya. Thanks M, for passing that genetic gift on.

I also took V into the Ladies Room with me today. Why I thought this would be a brilliant idea? Not sure… But I had to go to the bathroom and we were about to hit up a long drive. Luckily no-one was in the room when we entered and it stayed that way the whole time we were in there.

The moment his feet hit the floor of the stall, he turned around and those little fingers went right for the latch. Oh the fast mind of a mother…. “Ooooh, look honey…. toilet paper! On a roll! Oooooooh! Look! We can keep pulling and pulling and pulling it…..”

And that’s how he kept himself occupied the whole time we were in there. And then we washed our hands. With soap. All wet, freshly washed hands go directly down the front of Mummy’s shirts and into her bras.

And then there was the first time I said ‘NO!!’ in a very strong manner to Little Man. And then he laughed at me. Actually, he laughed so much, that he fell down on the ground and proceeded to keep giggling.

I even pulled out all of the stops with a full-on first, middle and last name firm, warning-like tone.

He kept laughing at me.

And then he hit his head on  the exact thing that I was trying to steer him away from. Which was the TV stand, in case you were wondering. That stand and all of its wires are truly a beacon to all men.

And then he cried. A lot. And then I felt slightly smug…. I was all like “See?!?! SEE!!!! That’s why I was trying to keep you away from there!!!”.

But since we are not really at a communicating stage yet, he didn’t listen to my logic and kept crying.

And I can’t handle it. So I scooped him up, gave him a cuddle and that crying stopped in…oh…2 seconds….

FAKER!!

I don’t think he really bumped his head at all… I think he just smacked the console and made a sound that was the same as hitting your head…

Damn it! So screwed over here… need more skills to deal with toddlers.

PS… All of these lovely occurrences happened today… just an fyi…

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Breasts

breasts-blog

Recently V started something new.

Pointing at my chest, more like poking me in the breasts (gawd, I hate writing ‘breast’, makes me feel like I am a guidance counselor and have a group of teens giggling at me)…anyways, he pokes me in the ‘breasts’ and exclaims ‘Mumma!’. And then he pulls my shirt out and takes a peek down it. And after he’s done that, he looks up at me and grins in the hugest way…

My first reaction? Laughter… Because FOR REAL, how else do you react to something like that?!

That is followed by… ummm…not sure what…blank? Awkward grin? A wtf face?

One of those….

It WAS rather funny. And now it’s moved into a pattern of, say, all the time. Which I guess, in hindsight, is not really a pattern at all. More of a regular event. A daily event actually.

Hm.

As are the other things, and you parents of boys know exactly what I mean. And I can sum it all up with the phrase “It starts early and never ends”. And I mean it. And then, for you non-boy parents, I will throw in the phrase ‘bits’, ‘adjusting’ and ”touching’. Is it clear? Have you ever met a man? Talked with one? Perhaps lived with one?

Then it’s clear…

It is the beginning of man. With each day passing, I understand my husband of almost 5 years just a little bit more. Watching a baby grow into a toddler and into a boy and then into a man…. well it’s basically the evolution of ‘man’ itself.

The breast obsession/hype, followed by the penis obsession.

Oh son of mine, you will not read this for many, many a year. Thank you for the  inspiration…

(and stop poking my breasts like that!)

xoxo a.m.

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Slap it hard

slap-blog

Boys can be very exhausting.

Riding on the end of an influenza, ear infection, projectile vomiting, high fever, nebulizer, late night crying and screaming, wheezy, asthmatic, some-one-bit-my-child-at-school month of October, I have had enough.

Enough October!! Give it a rest! Bring on November in all of it’s sweet turkey finery. Mummy needs a break.

I will not get one though, such is the life of Mummy.

Little Man is going through a ‘Mummy’ phase. Everything is ‘Mumma’ and ‘No’. Mostly ‘no’ to people who aren’t Mumma. And also ‘no’ when it is Mumma as well. He is alternately extremely delighted by everything that involves me and clingy as well. He just can’t get enough of me.

Secretly I am delighted. And secretly I am a little scared of my reaction. And then publicly terrified that I will be one of ‘those’ mum’s. Since I have called his Doctor every week for about a month now (and am really restraining myself from calling this week), I feel like I am edging there. They might know who I am. Hopefully they think I am nice (nervous laughter) and not a total psychopath-slash-first time mother.

This is a hard line to tread for me. Especially for a person such as myself, who tends to be rather concerned with what people think of her.

On one hand, I don’t care at all. I will happily babble nonsense at V down the aisle of any store and say the most ridiculous things to him. Random stories about the fruits and vegetables we are passing by…promises to make him yummy dinners, more delicious than he has ever eaten. Descriptions of things we are going to do on the weekend.

Confronted with people actually paying attention to me, it’s another thing altogether. Suddenly I do care very much about what I am saying and how I am coming across to them.

Basically I will kiss Little Man’s chubby cheeks to the point of rawness, and then afterwords wonder if anyone thinks I am too doting of a mother. But at the same time, I don’t give a shit. Because he is the cutest, sweetest Little Man in the world, way cuter than yours, by the way… Just in case you wanted to hear that. WAY cuter. And most handsome. And best personality. See? See what I mean? (My personality makes this rather conflicting…)

And I will call the pediatrician non-stop and use that overly friendly voice that annoys me so much at the office that I work at. You know, that voice you use when you want a favor? Except, I am not a bitch, like so many of the mothers I speak to (except for that one time…. but it was perfectly excusable…)

So this whole ‘biting’ thing at daycare really, well, bites. And super sucks. And bites even more…

I am unsure how to proceed with this. I called the director of the school, informed her and the teacher and now (apart from tossing the mother of the biter out into the parking lot and having a proper slap-down) I am not too sure what the next step is…

No slapping, right? And I must be sure to teach V about the no slapping rule as well….

*sigh*

xoxo a.m.

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Yesterday

autumn-blog

Yesterday I had a ‘1994’ experience.

Gluten-free blueberry pancakes and MacGyver (oh how I love you and your clever ways) were how V and I started the morning. I made itty-bitty  sized ones (mix by Pamela’s, best Gluten-free mix I have tried so far). Babies and pancakes are a good thing. Babies and blueberries are not. Did you know if Blueberry pancakes hit the (beige) carpet at a Toddler-throw velocity, there will be  a stain? Perfect illustration as to why one should get hard-wood flooring. (This has nothing to do with 1994)

Post-pancake and MacGyver-fest (I felt like V was significantly impressed with MacGyver), we were off to Grandma’s house.They were planning on hitting up SeaWorld with the Little Man, leaving me and the Big Man at loose ends.

We need a new coffee table. Our weenie wicker one just was not doing the job in our HUGE new house. We had things picked out to check out at American Signature furniture. We happened to drive past World Market. Well, it just happens that its one of my favorite shops. So we thought we’d stop in and check out their furniture.(Again, 1994 this is not)

Suddenly, mission accomplished. Coffee table spotted and purchased. With a discount as we purchased the floor model. Anyways, it is huge. HUGE. We borrowed the stores tape measure and went off to measure the trunk of my hatchback. Pretty much we had no idea what we were actually measuring. We were pressured by the sales staff to make sure it would fit as they said they would hate for us to buy it and then find out it didn’t fit. Like they really care. And like we care as well!

We were determined to make it fit.

It didn’t.

We tried harder.

It still didn’t.

Regardless, it was coming home with us. Precariously balanced in the back of my hatchback, I climbed in the back of the car, braced my legs and held onto that table with all of my strength. As I was getting situated in the back, a woman walking by said “Oh, I have so been there so many times!” and smiled.

I smiled back.

So have I.

And then I had a flashback to sometime in 1994 when an ungodly amount of girls climbed into my friend R’s little red car. I think it was a Hyundai. Or a Rabbit. Regardless, it fit 8 that day, several of us were in the trunk and that car was a low rider.

Not sure where we were going, but damn we had fun getting there.

Oh 1994, how I loved your fishnet stocking, plaid flannel shirt/jacket wearing, hand-painted combat boots stomping, always angry, black lipstick (1 week only) clad, Pearl Jam thrashing ways.

As I clung to that table, laughing and smiling while M drove down the expressway and that cool Autumn air blew in the back of my little red car, I was suddenly transported back to the Island. High School. My lady R. Oh friend, I miss those silly times.

Clutching that table, suddenly that simple little table shopping trip turned into so much more. A High School mini-flashback. A 10 year deduction from my birthday (leaving me in my 20’s). A big ol’ smile. Some slightly cold fingertips. A trunk filled with dried leaves. And one cheap blanket from Ross that only cost $5 was it was sold bundled up in packing tape that took me about 15 minutes to removed.

Trunk packing. Didn’t care.

Autumn and Fall,  you are the same but slightly different and I love you both…

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Toast

toast-blog

Today I bought a sandwich for a homeless kid.

I wasn’t going to. To be honest, I usually avoid anything to do with people asking for money. It’s pretty much inherent. Part of living on the West Coast I think. I am immune to begging…

On the West Coast, homeless people have cats and dogs that they guilt you into feeling sorry for. Who, seriously, can resist giving money to help someone feed their dog. That is the hardest thing in the world for me. Poor animals.

West Coast homeless people also try to ‘jolly’ you out of spare change. Or insult you…. one or the other…

Case in point:

Once, my mother and I were ‘accosted’ by a young man who swore we were so beautiful that he had immediately, on the spot, made up a poem, just for us. He was so charming, that of course we said yes. And then he charged us a dollar. And my Mum, being the lovely person she was, gave it to him.

And then we watched him do the same thing to someone else.

It was funny though. $1 equals funny experience that I remember 10 years later. I guess it was worth the price…

There is a well known man who sits outside a church in downtown Victoria that chimes “Spaaaaaare a little chaaaaange…” He is elderly, white-bearded. Practically has become part of the landscape. I hardly notice him when I am back home.

One day, walking past the Eaton’s Center (that would be ‘The Bay Center’ to all of you young ones in Victoria), I was yelled at for ignoring a request for change. I am sorry. But, to be honest, I can only handle that request so many times… Once I hit 4 or 5, I have reached my limit. It is hard for me to avoid the pleading eyes, but after years of experience I have become a skilled professional.

Living in the South is a little bit different.

There is no real downtown core, so you are not slammed with the exposure that you would be in my hometown of Victoria, or even Vancouver.

M and I were checking out Orlando’s ‘downtown’ area one day, back when I had first moved here when we were approached by the skinniest, dirtiest black man you have ever seen.

He proclaimed “You are in LOVE. I can feel it”.

“I can feel you love, it’s so strong. I know you love this gorgeous woman. You love her. I can feel it…. let me dedicate a song to her beauty…”

And then he proceeded to sing, with a glorious smokey voice, an amazing, jazzy, 1920’s made-up song about my beauty and how it had M wrapped around my finger. For surely no man had ever resisted a woman such as I…

Oh god, how I was both embarrassed and flattered. We gave him $5 and he went on his way, down the deserted street that he had crossed to reach us.

This young man that I saw today was the skinniest boy you have ever seen. Clad in dirty jeans and a black tank top… those shoulders of his popped right out of his torso, they were so sharp and narrow. He asked me very politely “Ma’am, spare any change?” And unfortunately I had none….

So I bought him a turkey sandwich and a bottle of water instead. And apologized to him on my way out of the restaurant for not having any money to give him. I hoped he would like this sandwich instead. He thanked me, and gave me a shy happy smile.

Just look what motherhood has done to me….

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Normal life

ikea-blog

A wee excerpt from my normal life…

Taking the elevator from the top floor in Ikea, down to the bottom with my cousin. Oh, how do we love Ikea. So many things to think and plan about, meatballs to eat, lighting fixtures to drool over. It is a beautiful place for the female members of my family.

Let’s backtrack a little…. rewind back to the food court on the top floor, about 10 minutes earlier… focus in on our lovely Ikea meal we were having. Well, that C and I were having, as V was clearly not interested in having any part of it. This was  illustrated by the carrots and cheese that he spat out. Spat out with force, I might add. He got some serious distance. Where did this random ‘skill’ come from? No idea…(signs are pointing towards his father though…)

So, as we fought with the meal tray, dropped carrots all over the place, spat out some meatball, smeared things all over our very small 18 month-sized shirt….all of this heavy action was followed by a stealth-poop.

And by stealth-poop, I mean that there were none of the usual warning signs. No grunting, no red face, no nuttin’……

Just an unfortunate smell…. one that crept up on me. It took C a while to notice… and that is because she does not have a poop-machine at home and so doesn’t recognize the early aromas-slash-signs….

But when it hit her…. oh man. It really hit her.

By then we were already on our way to the ‘family’ change-room.

But. It was locked. Damn it!! My son’s poop-bottom is more important than yours!

So I headed into the main washroom which thankfully had a changing-station.

Oh, that poor ladies-room. It was quickly defiled the instant that my son’s pants came off. That movement was punctuated by C’s exclamation of  ‘Motherf’er! Jame. That. Is. Awful.”

It might have been, but honestly, my nostrils are immune to stank like that. And my eyeballs don’t even notice anymore.

The other ladies that exited stalls and washed their hands smiled at my commentary regarding Little Man’s stinky pants. His very stinky pants. And how nice that the changing table was situated so that his dirty little bottom faced the mirrors and was reflected down the washroom.

As I wiped, cleaned, wiped and wiped some more, ladies filed in and out. There were giggles. Some of them might have come from my cousin.

As I reached into my diaper bag and pulled out a stank-diaper bag (you know, one of those ‘green’ bags that you stuff your stink into when you are out in public so the trash doesn’t stink awfully?) and got ready to deposit the ‘deposit’ into it, my cousin exclaimed at its cleverness. Really, it is very clever.

Such a nice way to tidy up after a stinky bum.

The lady washing her hands at the sink chimed in “I use plastic bags to clean up my cat’s litter box. They are so handy.”

C: “But I bet yours aren’t Arm and Hammer”.

Bathroom Lady: “No. You are right. I just use regular plastic bags”. *laugh*

Jaime: “My bags come with a handy container to hook on your hand-bag”.

C: “Quite handy when you are at Ikea”

BL: “I don’t bring my cats with me to Ikea”.

*Silence*

And then we left the bathroom and headed down to the ground floor…

Just another normal day….

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Tabloids (and motherhood)

tabloids-blog

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. M is actually home all day (he works Friday and Saturday nights… as well as full-time Monday through Friday) and I am well rested and eager for errands etc.

This morning, V slept in until 7:30. Holy God, was I ever happy! I spent all day yesterday at Epcot and was totally exhausted last night. How people come to Florida and spend days at the parks, I will never know…

Good sleep, check! V sleeping in, check! And a planned trip to Whole Foods (which is pretty much my Mecca). How could it get any better! Not only that, but at Whole Foods, I found Gluten-free chicken nuggets by my favorite kids food brand Happy Baby. Totally organic, wheat-free and not only that, but it doesn’t taste like crap. Bliss. I practically skipped through the checkout and drove home on a cloud, sort of ala Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

M was awake when I got home, happily taking V from my arms and leaving me free to go to the gym. My other favorite thing about Sundays. For some reason, Saturdays never work for that. Too many things going on, I guess.

Shorts and headband on, ipod clipped to tank-top and Melissa’s latest podcast uploaded, I happily tra-la-la’ed off to the gym to spend some quality time with my favorite treadmill.

About halfway through my treadmill routine, someone else entered the gym, asked me if it was OK if they put on the TV and hopped on the elliptical trainer. She skipped around until she found one of those ‘Forbes 15 Hottest Celebrity Moms’ and about 30 seconds into the program, I was seriously annoyed.

Let me see if I can explain why… or perhaps you already know?

I hate seeing motherhood displayed like this on national TV. I hate even more pairing it up with Forbes, as if to say “very clever people who are associated with Forbes clearly think hot celebrity mums are headline worthy’. And most importantly, I hate that they continuously ‘show’ regular mums how easy it is!

Parenthood is a piece of cake! No problem! You can easily have 3 kids, lose that post-preggo weight instantaneously. Head back to work 6 weeks postpartum… no problem! Because you love your job that much…

Puh-lease…

30 minutes of watching all about these hawt celebrity mums and I was ready to throw up. Personal chefs, 1-3 nannies a household, chauffeurs, personal trainers…. how on earth can us regular mums complete with that?

It is pretty much all that is in the tabloids, on the entertainment news shows and screaming out at you from every magazine cover.

“How Sarah-Jessica manages 3 kids”

“A peek inside Brangelina’s crazy household”

Ah! I can’t even continue to think of examples. So annoying.

If I could also have a personal chef, trainer, a few nannies, an extremely rewarding job that puts me pleasantly in the public eye (like, oh, famous museum curator, award winning blogger, novelist….) I am sure that I would not be that concerned about how much sleep I was getting.

Or about how to handle V’s wheat and peanut allergies by yourself without consulting with a nutritionist, allergist or personal chef. Or how to afford it as well.

And other exciting things like how to manage working full-time and still finding time to look for new daycare, since the in-home daycare that you used went into foreclosure and the owners are not returning your call (V was home with Daddy all summer, since M is a teacher and our attempts to return to the facility we were using before has been met with, well, with resistance, random hang-ups when calls are attempted and some gibberish from husband about how his wife will call us right back. Right)

I bet J.Lo isn’t worrying about that. And neither is Victoria Beckham. Bastards.

I am sure that these women work hard at whatever their jobs are. I don’t care. At all.

I am both fascinated and tired by seeing them in magazines. Mostly tired though. It makes it too easy for women to look at themselves while reading these ‘stories’, compare themselves and, well, maybe feel like they should be doing things different. Or losing more weight. Or having a fancier nursery. Or be happier about returning to work (and let me remind my fellow Canadians that we only get 12 weeks down here in the ‘Sauth’). It never is a happy thing to head back to work while your first born is 10 weeks old (like mine was). Especially when you hand him off to someone that now, a year later, turns out to be the worst choice ever. And maybe someone who is a lying, Jesus-obsessed psycho… This might be a bit of an exaggeration. But since I now hate the daycare lady….. don’t care…

Oh how marvelous it would be to pick and choose your work hours and schedule. Personal chef/trainer. Nanny. Ahhh.

Magazines, can you please give us regular women a break?! We frankly have neither the time, energy or fortune to compete with the women you feature. Or the inclination. We are too tired from lack of sleep and busy toddlers…

We have no time to read your magazines… we are too busy chasing our kids around, multitasking clever and healthy meals (without a personal chef) and trying to find time to fit in the gym.

Like we are apparently supposed to… Ah..bastards…

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Applebee’s

dinner2-blog

M and I were brave this evening and decided to take wee V out for dinner with us. We didn’t want to hit up anything fancy so we ended up at Applebee’s across the street. For my lovely Canadians, Applebee’s is like going to Earl’s. But with Rock n’ Roll paraphernalia instead of parrots.

It’s cheap. Crowded. Full of families.

In short, the perfect place to practise on. After we’ve master this place, we can move on to fancier places… Like, um, Chili’s…

So this was this evenings conversation…

“What would you like this evening?”

“I’ll have the Shrimp Fiesta sala–nanananananananana….Vincent. Nananana. No. Salad, please… And a glass of wine.”

“I’ll have the Roasted Red Pepper Chicken Penn-nanananananana. Vincent. Nananana. Put that down. Penne pasta. And a Caesar salad on the side. And some french fries. And a beer.”

“I’ll be right back with your drinks”

*please hurry*

5 minutes of thumping, clapping and hitting ourselves on the head commenced (V’s new favorite motion of choice).

Drinks arrived. It was 2 for 1 night (and apparently is every night of the week. I slurped back a glass of wine. M slurped back a beer) Clapping resumed.

Food arrived…(in between the clapping and food, there was little to no conversation). Conversation started but was cut short like this: ‘How was your da-dadadadadada day? Wheres Dada?! There he is!!! Yayayayayayayay!!!” *clap clap clap* etc

French fries arrived on a plate that was delivered directly to V. How thoughtful of the young waitress to deliver a plate of piping hot fries fresh out of the oil to a 1 year old. Thank you. Lets now listen to him scream while I remove them from his reach and cool them down. M, please distract him with a rattly Zebra or something….

Fries cooled down, eating began. And M and I ate quickly.

V ate so many french fries that I thought I would seriously regret this meal tomorrow. I still do. I am so going to rock-paper-scissors M tomorrow morning for the diaper change *Junken!!*

The rest of the meal consisted of clapping. Cheering. Hitting ourselves on our heads. Saying “What’s that?!” a million times. Really it sounds like ‘Izzat!” but that is what it means. Picking up toys. Picking up more toys. Apologizing to that couple that got a toy thrown at them (sort of). More hitting. Some random Pterodactyl noises (think  loud shrieks). French fries gently sprinkled on the floor like someone planting grass…. etc etc.

And then we went home. It was 7:30. V went right to bed. All of that restaurant excitement clearly tired him out…. he went right to sleep.

I love my child. Sometimes I really love it when he sleeps. Tonight is one of those nights…

xoxo a.m.

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