Time for some unassociated photos.

I’m gonna go ahead and call these her “getting into trouble jammies”, as they were responsible for the “climbing into the tub fully clothed” incident as well.

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Definitely the fault of the PJs, not the kid. Yep.

He told me he was reading “duh newspaper”.

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Never give a one year old (she’s still technically one, dangit!) ice cream in the car:

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“What do I doooooo?! It’s so stickyyyyy!”

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A story in photos

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Baby G loves her some oral hygiene equipment. She makes a beeline for them any time she has access to my bathroom.

In fact, she loves flossers so much, she fished one out of the flower bed outside of Olive Garden (no idea why someone felt an urgent need to floss outside of Olive Garden….and then litter).

And of course she then flossed with it…

as I ran towards her in horrified slow motion.

That’s it,

I’m locking in the current Yale tuition rate immediately.

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During the night, he raided the top shelf of his closet, found my 25 year old Fisher Price dinosaur bone kit (they don’t make toys like they used to, man) and built himself a dinosaur.

GENIUS!

DINO GENIUS!

(Rachel passes out from sheer pride)

Stinker

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This child…

Lately, when I ask her to do something, she stomps off to do it while yelling “aaahiiiiight…”.

Thats an exasperated “alright” for those of you who don’t speak toddlerese.

Swim Class.

Dan and I decided that this was the year we needed to get Payne some professional Not Drowning lessons.
Things started out a little rough.
A) Payne now shuns all true swim trunks. He quickly realized that trunks over a speedo were superfluous, and now he’s rocking the Michael Phelps look at splash pads all over the greater Houston area. It’s ridiculous.
So, I felt a little silly bringing my 4 year old, who doesn’t know a single stroke, to swim class at the local YMCA in a racing suit.

Honestly, I’m worried his teachers think I’m going all Earl Woods on them.
B) He refused to get in the water on the first day. Heck, he refused to let the teacher shower him off before he even approached the pool. I bargained, threatened, and cajoled, to no end. Finally one of the instructors came and got him just to see if putting him in the water would help.
No. No it didn’t. Payne was doing his best to throttle a 20 year old man. He kicked his teenage swim teacher, while vocalizing in a way I thought was beyond the capacity of anything but a Tasmanian devil. The adventure culminated with him perched on the edge of the pool ladder, growling mightily and fiercely staring at the pool deck, while three very earnest young people tried to talk some sense into him.
We went home early. Payne went to bed early, like at 11 a.m.
The next day we returned, armed with an apology letter signed by our little violent offender, and a sage lecture from Daddy still ringing in his ears.
And henceforth he has acted like he owns that place. He loves it!
In fact, he’s gotten a little cocky. The other two little girls in his class ¬†though unrelated, happen to have matching (Rainbow Hello Kitty, so chic!) swimsuits. ¬†He holds both of their hands and escorts them around the pool deck.
Guys, he looks like a shrunken Hugh Hefner.

 

Meet Blake.

It’s….IT’S…
I’m puppy sitting for my parents, and Blake is their most recent dachshund edition.
He is an absolute novelty to me, because I have never owned a long haired dog. I am fascinated:
– everything he does is muffled by his fur. He’s a dog ninja.
– instead of laying in sun patches on the rug like a proper dachshund, he lays in the shade on the tile.
– after a bath, his fur looks crimped. I had to resist the urge to put a tshirt ring on his collar.
(come on. You remember Tiffany)
– I may or may not have nick named him Michael Bolton.
This post has aged me, hasn’t it…