P52: Stranded

Not the most creative interpretation. Since we are in the midst of potty training a certain little Peanut (don't worry - that's the last you'll hear about it), Chris had an awesome idea that involved showing two tiny legs swinging from a great big potty. But I'm sorry, Internet. I just can't release a potty photo out in to the wild like that. And I know that a good portion of folks are breathing a huge sigh of relief, including my future teenager.



And a bonus shot from the same "shoot". He may be nekkid but I think this will require a little less therapy to get over.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

And I am digging it. Even if it means taking a half day of annual leave just to accomplish a trip to the damn post office (Tip: If you're going to ship something heavy, like, I don't know, a box of wine, not that you would because that's illegal, use the flat rate boxes so you don't spent $46 dollars (!!!!) on shipping. The nice lady at the post office may remind you of this but you won't want to unpack your illegal box of something-that-is-not-wine in front of her, so you will foolishly spend $46 rather than reveal your liquid secret (which only cost $20 to buy). Also, Merry Christmas to my brother. Here's hoping your gift makes it on base.).

Anywho, postal exploits aside, things are shaping up to be quite merry around here.We've already visited Santa - he flew in by helicopter to the College Park Aviation Museum. And my squirmy little toddler patiently waited in line for over an hour (so, that's like five days in toddler time) to see the Big Guy. But the Big Guy had candy and was seated a few feet from an elevator with buttons and chimes, so patience was indeed rewarded.








And our tree is up and decorated! Chris and I have a tradition of imbibing hot spiked drinks and watching "It's a Wonderful Life" while we trim the tree.








We also stopped by Zoo Lights at the National Zoo. The Peanut was not terribly impressed with all the pretty lights (I'll post some of those later), but he was enthralled by the miniature trains. They were decorated with an odd assortment of plastic figurines, including Homer & Marge toys, a slew of Sesame Street characters and My Little Ponies. It looked like two decades worth of Happy Meal toys were put to good use.



Also, in case you're wondering - my mounted police obsession continues, unabated.



Wait. That's not festive enough. How bout now?




Muuuuch better. Hope your days are merry and bright!

(But screw Christmases being white. I have no use for snow.)

Kiss ass

Yesterday, my toddler told me to kiss his butt. I really thought I had a good ten, maybe fifteen years before I heard those words. In this instance, it wasn't back-talk from a surly teenager, it was just a two year old asking me to kiss a boo boo, but it made for a very conflicting moment in parenting.

Picture it: we're merrily playing in the living room when he backs his tiny tush in to the coffee table.

Peanut: Owww! Mama, kiss it!

Me: I'm sorry, what?

Peanut, looking all sad and pointing at his traumatized heiny: My butt, Mama! Kiss MY BUTT!!

Me, trying very, very hard not to laugh in my poor, pained toddler's face: Whoa, dude. No. I am not going to kiss your butt.

Peanut, now extra sad because magical medicinal mommy kisses were being withheld, has real pain in his big brown eyes: KISS IT MAMA!! KISS. MY. BUTT.

At this point, I had to start negotiating because I knew one thing - I was not kissing my child's ass (not now and hopefully not ten years from now when he pretends not to know me in the mall). So, I tried to casually blow him a south bound kiss and that didn't take. Eventually we settled on me leaning down, kissing the palm of my hand and then patting his hind end. Instantly, the butt boo boo was healed. I wish I could say the same for my ego.

Domo arigato

Mr. Roboto.



My precious little marching robot minion.

With his sp/ray gun.

Hope you all had a Happy Halloween! I think the Peanut enjoyed himself immensely. He trick or treated at only two houses (not counting Grandpa and Tessa's), but did a fantastic job and brought home just enough loot.



(Wouldn't it be nice if they all had one of those switches, for real?)

Stirring the pot

Okay, that title is misleading. It makes you think that I have something controversial to say, which I don't. Unless having a toddler that sleeps in on weekends is controversial. 'Cause guess what? I got that, suckas! After four weekends in a row, I think I can safely proclaim my parenting success to the world - my kid sleeps past 8 am practically every Saturday and Sunday! It is just as glorious as you might imagine. And thankfully I have relished every lazy moment because now I have most certainly jinxed myself.

The Peanut had quite a rough patch when he was an infant and now Chris accuses me of hoarding sleep. Like crazy ladies can never have too many cats, I can never have too many hours of sleep. I will take it whenever I can and will stockpile it. You know how your grandmother, the one that lived through the depression, has an entire freezer full of butter? That's like me. Except the freezer is my body and the butter is TEN HOURS OF SLEEP. I don't really need that much but you just. never. know.

In other parenting news, I was riding home on the Metro last week. Same as usual, except this time I'd forgotten both my book and my headphones so I had neither literature nor music to get in the way of some serious eavesdropping. At some point a couple get on, about my age but much hipper. In fact, the guy was entirely too hip for his own good, with a douchey little hat, expensive glasses and skinny jeans that did his PBR-induced (I assume) beer belly no favors. Their exchange went something like this:

Jerkhat: But you really have to read this article. There are a million reasons why you NEVER introduce television before the age of two. [Goes on to list multiple things about retarding social development and whatnot on his fingers]

Hip but Sensible Girl: What do you mean never? What if I have a bad day and I'm tired and I just need to keep him occupied for a few minutes? Sesame Street won't hurt.

Jerkhat: Sesame Street is the WORST. This study showed it. You gotta read the article. You just can't let him watch tv.

Girl: Well, then you'll never be able to leave me alone with him. Ever. Because at some point I'm going to turn the tv on.

After a bit more of this exchange, I figured out that the girl was newly pregnant with Jerkhat's offspring and I felt really badly for her. Not only because her Baby's Daddy wore skinny jeans in public but because his sanctimonious attitude made me, a mild-mannered stranger, want to punch him in his Elmo-hating face. And I didn't even know him. And I don't even like Elmo all that much. The Peanut doesn't watch a ton of tv and often chooses a PBS cooking or home improvement show over Curious George (we've moved from Jacques Pepin to This Old House). Everything in moderation, dude. Including that PBR.

Vroom vroom

The Peanut's friend Grant has his own motorcycle. And all the boys love it.







ALL of them.

Pardon me

I seem to be going through some sort of animated gif phase.


Free gif maker

Two much fun

One day:





One year:




(Photos by Stacey at Labor of Love Photography)

TWO years!





A very Happy Birthday to the sweetest, cuddliest, goofiest, cutest Peanut I have ever, ever met. You're my favorite and I love you so.

Love,

Mama

Just beachy

What was that? I'm sorry? Oh, it's been how long since I posted a photo of my adorable child in his ridiculously cute hat on the beach? My apologies.



Whoo! I feel so much better now! In case you hadn't guessed, we spent another weekend soaking up sun and getting sand in strange places on the shore. It was a pretty low key weekend, we ate in a lot and dodged many thunder showers.



And when it rained, we practiced walking the dog, undeterred by obstacles like chairs or kibble.

(And WOW, what a difference a few feet in ceiling height can make when you're bouncing a flash!)

When it wasn't raining, the beach was absolutely perfect. We have a secret little spot (no, I'm not going to tell you) that is rather unpopulated anyway, but the tricky weather scared away more folks than usual. The sun skipped in and out of clouds, a nice breeze was blowing, and the Peanut splashed and splashed and splashed.


(This could explain the filthy state of my lens for the rest of the trip).



We are doing our best to embrace what little of summer remains.



Also, cupcakes. We are also embracing cupcakes. But that's more of a general philosophy and not season specific.

Living beyond our means

Well, not really. Just hob-nobbing with folks above our tax bracket. Once or twice each summer, we like to take advantage of Twilight Polo at Great Meadow in The Plains, Virginia. It's a great opportunity to get the polo experience. Especially because it's arena polo, which means the matches are shorter and in a smaller, closer space than regular field polo (you know, from Pretty Woman). Plus, there's tailgating. And really, all we need is the tailgating part. The general rules of polo are fairly simple, but the fouls are mind-boggling, so wine is helpful.

We skipped last summer, probably something to do with raising an infant blah blah blah, so the last time we were at Great Meadow was literally the day before the Peanut was born. Lucky for me, he waited a good 24 hours and let Mommy have one more day to waddle the streets of nearby Middleburg, eat at The Red Fox and at the end of the day enjoy a fancy fizzy soda on the arena sidelines.


Getting ready to hog all Mommy's duck breast at Forlano's Market

Needless to say, toddler Peanut had a blast. I figured as much.  I mean, there's fast horses and whacking mallets and balls and cute little blonde girls in Lily Pulitzer dresses. Plus, all the crackers your grandmother can feed you (although his favorite picnic basket treat was one only my mom would bring - sardines with dijon mustard. And my kid had four.)




The excitement of the match was almost too much to handle.


Proudly representing the MD in VA.



He was not thrilled that posing for this picture interrupted his pony watching.


Mel the Fox hitched along for the piggy back rides.

Actiony!

Ringside seat.

(Photo credit to Chris for at least half these. But I would get them in the divorce, so let's just call them mine.)

Our new French nanny

We've found someone to mind the Peanut in the evenings. Just for a few minutes -- long enough to let us clear the table and load the dishwasher. The Peanut adores him, asks for him by name even. Only one person could elicit this range of emotion in a toddler in one five minute time span:



And that person is Jacques Pepin. Or, in our house, "Jock Pa".



I don't know what it is about this lispy old Frenchman, but he captivates my child. Maybe it's the flashy knives or the constant use of Cuisinart brand appliances. Or maybe it's all the butter. Either way, it's fine by me. I finally have someone to pass on my copy of The Apprentice to. Parenting win.

Hey, good lookin'

Watcha got cookin'?





(Mashed potatoes, for the record.)

Sandcastles in the sand

(In case you aren't familiar with the work of Robin Sparkles, click here)

This past weekend featured a different cast of characters - Pop Pop and my cousin Kelly and her family. Chris finally got to live his year-long dream of playing the slots at Ocean Downs. No pictures of that unfortunately, but I can tell you that we were the youngest people, aside from those wearing camouflage.


Sand crab.


She is a pistol.


And sometimes a good sport.


The Peanut pointing out a plane to Laney and a helpful iced coffee banner for Mommy.





The newest member of the mamarazzi!