All That's Missing is a Big. Red. Bow.

This morning I was estatic to find myself able to wear this wonderful red, cropped Trina Turk jacket with large silver buttons that I bought nearly a year before I found out I was pregnant with Harry.  It has been hanging in my closet patiently waiting for the "baby" weight to skip town (can I use that excuse when he's a Freshman in college?).  I gave it whirl this morning since I was disgusted with all my other options, and it fit.  Woo Hoo!  Right?

This jacket has a history.  Thrilled though I was with the purchase, it admittedly has cost a little too much per wear.  Also, it tends to attract ridicule from my fashion critics.  The first day I wore it Wes choked on his coffee when I came out of the bedroom heading to work.  I got a sarcastic "nice jacket, where's the rest of it."  (Did I mention it's cropped?)  When I made it to the office, he had texted ahead to be sure my fashion nemesis number 1, a/k/a Sneaky Snake, was apprised of the situation.  As I walked by his office he guffawed and said, "oh, I get it.  Wes wanted me to ask if you got that jacket half off."  Ha. Ha. Ha. Still, it's damned cute.  Screw them.  Bow ties and seersucker pants do not make you experts on what is awesome.

So back to today.  Yippee.  It fits!  I'm about to finish up and slip on my red patent leather pumps when Ellie calls from downstairs to let me know she's "LEAVING FOR SCHOOL NOW, MOTHER!!!!!"  So I head to the top of the stairs to blow a kiss goodbye and tell her to behave (utter waste of breath).  She sees me and squeals "I.  LOVE.  YOUR.  OUTFIT."  "Why, thank you," I reply, very pleased that she has inherited at least some of my fashion sense.  "Mommy!  You look just like the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!"  Grrrrrrrrr.  Is it wrong that I wore it anyway?

Tiptoes and Pigsfeet

For those of you that doubted the veracity of my assessment as to the size of Harry's feet I give you Exhibit A:

Yes, I am also aware that his calves are larger than her thighs.  Meaty feet indeed.

Such a Pusher

Yesterday morning began with a typical Ellie/Mommy dispute.  I informed her we were turning off the tv to go downstairs and get breakfast before the nanny got there.  The exchange went something like this:

Ellie:  Ummm, no, I just want to stay in your bed and watch Super Why.
Me:  Too bad.  Let's go.
Ellie:  Super Why!
Me:  (Turning off tv) out of my bed, now.  Let's go.
Ellie: (Grudgingly getting out of the bed, in her sassiest voice possible) Daddy's right, you are fun pushing.
Me:  Fun pushing?  What is that?
Ellie: You push the fun away.
Me:  (Remembering last night's conversation) Oooooh, you mean fun poison?
Ellie: Yeah, that, you poison all the fun.

She ain't seen nothing yet.

Meaty Feet? More Like Side of Beef with a Slab of Bacon Feet.

So, yesterday we made our biannual trip to Coggins, the local shoe store.  Ellie's fitting and selecting went well.  Size 10.5, foot on the narrow side, plenty of choices in her size.  For the record, hot pink clogs are the absolute must have this season.  Harry's appointment with the "sizer" was an entirely different matter.

First, his foot has grown a full size since May...in length.  He is now a 5.5/6, not all that unusual for his age.  Here's where the problem comes in.  Our helper checks Harry's foot size with the stick and then says "uh...I think I need the other one.  We might have a width issue."  Sure enough, when he gets the metal device with the little slide on the side, Harry's foot fell about an inch west of EEE.  Thinking maybe I didn't know how to read it I asked the guy what it meant.  He says "lady, this kid's at least a quadruple E, maybe a quintuple, never seen anything like it.  He's going to need to special order."  Only shoes in the store that fit him were extra wide New Balance.  The adorable navy blue Keds with the rubber toe I had picked out?  He'd need a 7.5 to fit him in the width.  Yeah, looked like flippers, because I tried it. 

So, you might ask, just what does a special order, extra wide, saddle oxford in a child's size 6.0 cost you?  You do not want to know.  Even I was shocked.  I actually contemplated sending him to church in New Balance, but...no, I'm lying, I did not contemplate sending him to church in New Balance.  So I look at Harry and say "dude, you need to get a job...maybe as a plus sized baby model," to which he responded "Max...EIEIEI...NO, NO, ma ma."  You have to admit, he does have a way with words.

Snozzberries Taste Like Snozzberries

Have you ever seen a blue rasberry?  I'm pretty sure I haven't.  Nevertheless, until I was about 15 years old I thought rasberries were not just blue, but all out electric, not quite smurfy not quite Florida (of course that would be inedible-blech), glowing blue.  I assumed rasberry bushes must be one of the coolest fruit bearing objects on earth.  Bear in mind that raspberries weren't all that plentiful in beautiful downtown Appling, Georgia.  I'm quite certain I didn't see a real raspberry until cheerleading camp my sophomore year of high school where they had the exotic little morsels for sale at the Bolton Hall cafeteria at UGA.  I did not let on that I had no clue what those bumpy little maroon colored yummies were.

My confusion is understandable.  I first encountered "rasberry" flavor in the AstroPops they sold at the ball parks where my mom played softball (don't judge).  Otter Pops boasted a super yummy turquoise version of the flavor that was hawked by Monsieur Louie Bloo.  I think the vaunted Popsicle brand may have flirted with a blue pop at some point as well.  While a cool memory of childhood, I assumed that with all the focus on getting the additives and weird dyes out of our food the mythical blue raspberry would be a thing of the past.  Au contraire mon frere.

Blue, arguably raspberry flavored, frozen water is still alive and well and Harry is addicted.  He loves the things.  Last night he ate 2 whole pops by himself.  He squeezed every last bit of synthetic blue goodness out of those tubes and then reached over to yank approximately half of Ellie's Louie Bloo away from her. 

When all the blue yummy was consumed he sat there in his artifical dye stained clothes with his electric blue hands, mouth and thighs (that's right) and bemoaned the demise of Louie Bloo.

Ahhhhh, childhood.  Sunshine, playgrounds, and Blue Dye #1.  Good times.

And You Are...?

After living with an incredibly (I mean INCREDIBLY) verbal little girl for the past few years, I was warned to not expect such verbosity from the dude as it is apparently not in their natures to begin prattling on about everything they see as soon as they can string a couple of syllables together.  Therefore, I did not panic when he began uttering something very similar to da-da a few months ago.  I didn't get real upset when he began grunting EH-EE everytime his sister took yet another toddler toy away from him.  I even bragged about his prolific use of the word "ball" and his insistence on loudly and repeatedly indentifying every spherical object as a "ball" whenever one came into sight and shouting "ball" whenever one needed to be had right then and there--which is always.

So what that he hasn't said mama yet?  "M" is a hard letter to form; I mean much more difficult than a stupid "D" or "B".  Plus, why does he need to say it?  I pick him up before he really feels the need to get my attention anyway.  I mean, the "M" will come to him and then I won't get him to stop saying "mama", right?  Of course, he could decide instead to learn a few other words...like, maybe, Max.  Yeah, that's right.  Instead of saying "mama", instead of recognizing the woman that gave birth to you, dotes on you, changes your diapers and makes sure you have a never ending supply of sippy cup cocktails and chocolate goldfish crackers, maybe it'd be good to start talking to the freaking dog whose name sounds a whole lot like "ma" except with a freaking X on the end.  AN X!!!! Let's call for him first thing in the morning.  Maybe bang on the back door to get his attention and say his name over and over again.  Or even call him over to feed him a few of those crackers that woman whose name you forget keeps bringing you.  When she tries to get you to say "mama" for the bazillionth time just act like you don't hear her...she'll go away, or maybe she'll get you some more milk.

Or, what would be awesome would be to grab her dress sleeve while sitting at the restaurant after church on Sunday and tug really hard to get her attention, and when she turns to see what you want this time just grin and say "MAMA."

 

Are Sneaky Snakes Fundamentally Evil? Discuss.

Theological conversation as we are heading to school this morning:

E: Do we know any bad people?

Me: What do you mean?

E: I mean, do we know any people that are mean to other people or hurt other people?

Me: We make it a rule not to be friends with bad people.

E: (30 second pause)...We're friends with Mr. Darrell.

Me: (What I wanted to say) Touché.
(What I actually said) You think Mr. Darrell is bad?

E: He's a sneaky snake and he steals my french fries. He's been stealing my french fries for a long time and I know this because I remember him stealing my french fries when I was just a baby and I don't remember anything else from when I was a baby, but I remember that because he IS STILL STEALING MY FRENCH FRIES!

Me: So him stealing your french fries makes him bad?

E: Jesus said not to take things from other people, and all those french fries were mine and he took them. But, I don't think Jesus had french fries, so maybe he didn't mean you couldn't take french fries, and even if he did I don't think Mr. Darrell can help it. I think he just has to be a sneaky snake because he doesn't know any better. Like when Harry does something wrong and you tell me he can't get in trouble because he's too little and he doesn't know any better. If someone does something that's bad but they don't know any better then they can't get in trouble, so maybe sneaky snakes aren't bad, they're just sneaky because they can't help it.

Me: Yep.

Personally, I'm way more impressed with the sneaky snake capacity argument than the Chewbacca defense.