New Duds

Hey y'all...

I've been working on transitioning my blog to the real deal....ya know, drop the blogspot...and have an actual web address.  You can now find my stories about poo and tiny dictators at 

www.thetinyfashionista.com. 

 I've even added a few new features like "My Favorite Things" page and recipes from "The Tiny Chef."  Check it out.  Tell your friends.

xo,

K

Poo Truths and a Lie

I'm about to share with you two unspeakable truths.  These are true confessions.  They are beyond upsetting.  Both of these things happened in a single day, within a single hour. I am sharing this because I don't know how else to cope.  Somebody? Anybody?  Help a mother out.

The first: we found a mystery poo on my kitchen table…during dinner.
The second: the Teeny ate her own poo.

These are actual events, and only our pride was hurt in the making of this real life drama.

It all began on Father's Day...
we sat down for a beautiful meal…picture it: Peeps (our special out of town guest), fresh veggies from our own garden, soft jazz playing on iTunes, wine poured, celebratory toast made.  And then real life crashes our serene shores, and the whole thing is blown to bits like a sand castle at high tide with a single question.

"ewww, what's that?!?" Tiny asked.

Hubs inspects…it's tiny, it's brown, its on the side of our small round table.  "hmmm, I don't know, maybe it's mud?"  And then he smells it, and his face gets squishy, he's turning green, and even he can't believe the next words spilling out of his mouth "it's a turd."  He's running for the wipes, the jelly bean sized poo hanging on his index finger.  I can't speak, I'm mid bite. This can't be happening.

I think its Tiny's laughter or maybe its Peeps that snaps me out of my "this can't be my life" haze.  "Where in the h-fire did it come from?"  I start checking butts.  No, no…butts are clean.

Then it's like the great inquisition….
"Tiny, did you poo?
  Did you pick that up outside?
  Is it Teeny's?
  Did you see her?
 Was she playing with her diaper?
 Where in the holy flying f did this poo come from?
 And how in heaven's name did it end up on our table?"

I'm sweaty (yes, again), and the meal might as well be flushed with this teeny pint-sized turd.  There are somethings that you just can't bounce back from and continuing to eat after finding a mystery turd on the table is at the top of that list.    And, here's the really unspeakable part….I still don't know where it came from.  Is Tiny a master of deceit? Does she know?  Is there a turd burglar on the loose?  So many questions, so few answers.  One teeny, tiny unsolved mystery.

I want to don a hazmat soon and go all Dexter after a murder on this place.  But just as I'm about to reach for the bleach…the crazy train rolls on.

Teeny has decided to pile it on.  (Pun intended)

You know those diapers where you expect one thing, and then you pull those little velcro tabs and you realize…oh shit….I mean, "OOOOhhh Shit!!"   Well, it was one of those moments.  Still reeling from the shock of just moments ago, I was unprepared. The wipes container only had a few wipes left and I needed more.  I'm shouting, "bring me a garbage bag!  i need more wipes!  oh no!  oh god! teeny don't touch that!  stop squirming!"

Teeny doesn't listen. She grabs the diaper.  I don't realize it, but she's grabbed poo too.  I'm waiting on the wipes, and she's squirming and then inexplicably screaming.  And then I see it….the poo on her fingers, and a brown streak on her lips, her teeth.  I want to die.  This can't be happening.  The wipes have arrived.  I'm using them on her butt and her mouth simultaneously.  "I need water!"  "I need a toothbrush!"  ….."I need a shower!"

And, that's it.  The tipping point. I'm hysterical.  I'm crying and laughing because there is nothing left to do.   I'm a mess of tears, and snot and yes, more poo.

This is me.  This is us. Our poo truths…and the lie?  Well, the lie is that serene setting of jazz and wine and tranquility.  This is who we really are, the struggle is real.  Somedays are amazing and some days, well, some days are just shitty.   The key is to find the funny and wildly and boldly embrace the whole truth….and buy clorox wipes in bulk.
 

A Fish Called Starlet

Would you give goldfish as a party favor for your child's birthday bash?  I know what you're thinking, what's wrong with tiny fish-shaped cheese crackers?!?  And, I'd say nothing (save the artificial ingredients). But, I digress.  I'm actually asking, would you give each attendee of your kid's party a REAL, LIVE, BREATHING, POOPING, EATING FISH in a bowl?

If you're reading this thinking, "what a cute idea!" let me make a suggestion, don't do it.  Just buy the crackers.  Because when you give an actual fish, what you are really giving is a headache, an unnecessary conversation about death with a toddler, a new reason for parents to lie, and an expensive trip to the pet store to perpetuate the lie to avoid further conversations about fish heaven.

SPOILER ALERT Parents and Party Planners: The. Fish. Dies.  Every. Time.  Fish can't live in the tiny bowl you throw the ping pong ball in at the state fair, or the flower vase you pass off as a home because it fit the theme of your tots too extravagant party.

Our story began...
when we received a birthday fishy from a friend…who had attended a fish soiree and was moving so she couldn't keep it.  We laughed as she brought the little bowl, food and fish over on Oscar night, and Tiny excitedly named the newest addition to our family Starlet, of course.

That night she kissed Starlet's bowl before she went off to bed.  We stayed up til midnight watching real starlets cry over golden statues, gave Starlet a quick peek..snug as a bug in her little bowl…and went to bed.

The next morning hubs got up at 5 a.m. to play basketball.  And thank god, because while packing his gym bag he noticed our little Starlet had gone belly up.  That's right folks, she was floating less than 24 hours after the birthday party.  

Now, we were faced with two choices…sink or swim.  Having just lost Hugo a few month prior, we could not bear the thought of telling Tiny another pet had gotten sick and gone to heaven.   How would she ever trust a pet could live?!    So we did what any sane and really tired parents would do…we lied.

We devised a plan so devious and so ridiculous that we weren't sure even a three year old would buy it. But we hung our hats on this plan and fully committed.    We would tell Tiny she seemed a little sick and daddy thought he better take Starlet to work to ask his friends for help.  She'd never know he had stopped at the pet store on the way home and picked up a new Starlet.

As hubs flushed our scaly friend under the cover of darkness, I laid in bed.  "Maybe we don't need to worry, maybe she won't even remember we had Starlet," I mused.  "Hide the bowl."

Two hours later, I'm still lying in bed and I hear her breathing before I see her.  Tiny, the creeper, is in my face and I swear to God, before I've even opened my eyes, the question is out of her mouth, "Mommy, where's Starlet?"  It's go time…yawn, stretch, you've got to sell this.

I sit up.  "Well, honey, daddy got up early to play basketball and he noticed Starlet was looking a little sluggish.  He thought he better take her to work and see if his friends could help her."

Tiny, in all her inquisitive glory, studies my words and my face…I can tell she's trying to decide if I'm full of shit (which I absolutely am).  After a few seconds she decides to believe me…maybe its pity, maybe she knows the truth is worse than the lie, or maybe she actually buys it.  It doesn't matter the reason…she says, "huh, that's weird.  But, what did Starlet do while daddy was playing basketball?"

The spin doctor in me is intricately weaving my tale of deceit, "she watched."

The rest of the day passes with only a few little exchanges about dear Starlet.  Hubs rolls in about 6 p.m. with "Starlet" and BAGS of stuff.    B-A-G-S….this free fish is costing a lot more than an honest relationship with our child.  It's costing us actual money too.

Long story short, pet store guy explained to hubs that fish can't live in little bowls because their poop kills them.  We'd have to buy a new Starlet every day unless we upgraded to a tank and filter.   But Hubs doesn't stop there…he gets pink rocks, and fake plants, and a light.

Tiny studies Starlet 2.0…after careful inspection, she exclaims "Starlet grew!"   And, she did A LOT.  Apparently the pet store was out of size small.

"Aw, she looks so cute."

With this we realize we are in the clear.   Tiny believes that this new, bigger fish, with a bigger house and fancy rocks IS Starlet.  Starlet will stay in her room.  The tank will be her night-light, and girl and fish will, at last, live happily ever after.

Starlet 2.0

That is until…

Yep…got this text last night from Hubs.
Starlet 3.0 is on her way.

I couldn't help it.  Their best fish faces.

Shakes on a Plane

So we all know how I feel about flying with tiny tots…it's the worst.

No matter if you are the parent trying to wrangle the kiddos and their totes and backpacks, sippy cups and strollers... or the innocent victim seated next to the pint size passengers, it is a sorry mess.

It's sweaty and sticky and nerve wracking even if everything goes right.  It almost always involves tears and sometimes poo and spilled m&m's and always, always a mother teetering on the edge of insanity the entire god forsaken time wheels go up til wheels hit the ground.

I travel enough with mine to know how to pack the smallest amount of necessities in the smallest of bags.  I know what snacks are the kryptonite.  I know to pick the window seat.  I know to check every non-essential thing.  I know the amount of liquid I can get through security and that TSA will wave a white strip of teeny tiny paper over each sippy cup and bottle.  I know my kids don't have to take off their shoes or jackets and that I will be patted down.  I know that every single time Tiny's stuffed Minnie Mouse has to make her way through the X-ray machine, Tiny will start to cry. I know that my thermos straw cups full of milk will spray everywhere when opened for the first time after take off.

I could write a book on how to travel with kids.  (Chapter 1: Leave them home…just kidding! Kinda.)

But, this weekend I learned that none of it really matters.  No matter how prepared you are the unexpected can happen, and I'm not talking about a poo blowout requiring outfit changes for the entire row (yes, this has happened to me.)

After this weekend, I can make one more notch on my travel belt.  I now know what to do when my baby has a seizure at 30,000 feet in the air exactly half way through a two hour flight.

Do I have your attention?

Our day started fine.  We had a nice breakfast with family, said our goodbyes, and trekked to the airport in less than ideal weather conditions.  Once checked in and half way to our gate, our flight was delayed.  We sat and passed the time staring out the window at the dozens of snow plows trying to out pace the falling snow. My matching duo kept the other waiting passengers entertained with their singing, shouting, and general silliness.  At long last our plane and crew arrived and the boarding began.  Pops seemed a little tired and snuggly but I thought very little of it given the flight and consequent nap delay.

Once on board we got settled.  Liesee the astute traveler, whipped out her iPad, strapped on her head phones, buckled her seat belt, popped her ring pop and hunkered down for two hours of purgatory.  I stared out the window saying my ritual pre-flight Hail Mary and made small talk with the woman next to me..she was on her way to see her own grandchildren.  Pops nestled herself in the crook of my arm and fell asleep.  Almost an hour passes without much event…save the woman directly in front of us that decided to paint her nails.

Shortly after the drink cart passes and the first sweep of garbage has been collected, things start to go wrong.  Our seat mate crinkles her water bottle, and its just loud enough to wake my sleeping lap child.  But when Teeny sits up she doesn't look right, and doesn't feel right either.  She's warm.  Impossibly warm.  I try to get her focus and wake her more, assuming she is still sleepy, but she's unresponsive.  I hold her a bit away from me and here is where she collapses in my arms.  I immediately say to the grandmother next to me, "something is wrong with my baby, I need help." And she bolts down the aisle.

It was seconds, but feels like forever.  Inside I am screaming and praying and desperate to help my baby...I stand up and yell again, "something is wrong with my baby, I need help."    Poppy goes from limp to eyes rolled back to one side and then her arms and legs begin to shake.

The announcement comes over the intercom, "We need medical help in row 7, if there is a doctor or nurse on board please help."  It's a scene from a bad lifetime movie…we have become that airplane medical emergency.  I am immediately surrounded by a stewardess who instantly recognizes that Poppy is having a seizure, a doctor and two nurses.  The doctor takes over, he strips her down, the crew is bringing cold wet napkins and everyone is telling me there is nothing we can do except get her temp down and wait until she stops seizing.  I am hanging onto their every word, but inside I am a mess of panic and fear…so much fear. The questions are flying, the captain is on the phone with medical on the ground, and all eyes of this Frontier AirBus are on my sweet Poppy.

I'm later told the seizure lasted 3-4 minutes…but to me each excruciating second felt like a year.  The first stewardess to help us has a seizure disorder and she knew to time Poppy's.  When she comes out of it, Poppy looks a little drunk and dazed.  She is pink all over.  I always carry Tylenol when I travel and the doc has me give her a dose when she is fully conscience.  We try to get her to drink, and still the number one priority remains getting her temp down.  It is at this point our makeshift medical team is talking Febrile Seizure.

I'm told to take Poppy to the bathroom.  I need to change her diaper and give her a cold bath in the lavatory sink.  While a steward is helping me in the bathroom, the other is sitting with Liesee, folding Poppy's clothes and more than anything bringing calm to one of the scariest moments of my life.  Liesee, for all her crazy, knew I needed her and stepped up.  When I explained what was happening in the simplest of terms and told her she was going to have to be good and sit with this nice lady she looked me in the eye and said, "Ok Mommy, I'll do it."  She was brave, and somehow understood that this moment wasn't about her.  I could still cry thinking about her little determined and concerned face.

As a half naked and wet Poppy and I make it back to our seat, I'm still somehow holding it together. That is until one of the friends we had made during our long airport delay, grabbed my arm and asked me how I was doing.  At this, the tears I've been holding back fall, I can't answer and begin to tremble.

I collapse back in my seat and just hold my sweet babe.  I am rocking and I don't know if its for her or me. She is exhausted and pink and still too warm, and I am scared.  The decision has been made to keep flying.  The seizure is over, it is collectively believed to be a Febrile Seizure, and I agree it is best to press on to Dallas where my hubs and a team of paramedics will meet us.  But the time can't pass fast enough.  There is paperwork to be done, bags to be collected, and procedures to go over, and I am still scared.

By the time the plane lands, Poppy is looking around, she's even given our fellow passengers a little serenade.  But, no one is too quick to put on their headphones and ignore us, because right now her cries are the sweetest sound.  It is time to call hubs.  He's meeting us in the airport, and he knows nothing of the last hour.  He answers, and at the sound of his voice, mine cracks.  "Hi hon, Everyone is ok, but we had a medical emergency on the plane. Poppy is fine now, but she had a seizure.  I need you to get to the gate as soon as possible."  I can hear the panic in his breath but before we've even hung up he has found someone to get him the security clearance necessary to meet us.

The paramedics come on board, and help us off the plane.  Poppy's temp is back to normal.  The tylenol and ice have worked.  We are advised to call our doc, and go to Dallas Children's Hospital.  The hospital will confirm for us that it was a Febrile Seizure and that the underlying cause of that seizure is nothing more serious.  The fever was caused by a viral infection and the sudden spike from no fever to a high fever is symptomatic of this type.   For as impossibly abnormal as the whole situation was, Febrile Seizures are relatively "normal."  Turns out almost 1 in 25 kids will have one before they turn 3…my kid just has a flair for the dramatic and wanted her first to be a real story to tell.   I can see her years from now playing two truths and a lie…"When I was one I almost grounded a plane full of people…"

In all seriousness, I wish I knew the names of everyone that helped me.  If I could go back I'd hug them all... from our seat mate, to the crew, to the doctor and nurses, I cannot express how deeply and truly grateful I am.  Their calm and immediate action was nothing short of heroic.   Especially that attendant that stayed with Liesee and timed the seizure and brought me a Ginger Ale, and when everything was over and her work was done took it upon herself to tell me, "Hey mama, I just want you to know you did everything right.  You did good."  It didn't have to be said, but damn she understood my mommy fear and knew from one mom to another that I needed to hear that.  If your faith in humanity has ever wavered let me tell you, people are good.

After Saturday my definition of a good flight has changed too.  A successful trip used to be we get to our destination without tears and poop.  Now and forever more it will be, we arrive at destination without a team of paramedics waiting to escort us.

To that end, squeeze your babies extra tight, thank God for doctors and nurses, be really nice to your flight crews and say a Hail Mary at every take off.

My Tiny and Teeny Travelers.

Pre-boarding snacks.

Snow plows that provided hours of entertainment.

Yep…we all feel this way about an airport delay.

We had no idea what was about to happen.

My frequent flyer.

First visit to the E.R.

Post hospital Pizza Party…with that pouty
lip I would have given her anything…anything.

A girl has to accessorize.

Hugo the Boss

Hugo Boss

I know I'm supposed to be writing about my little ladies.  But before there was them, there was him.  Our beloved pup, Hugo Boss the Boston Terrier.  Later in life he suffered from severe arthritis and in the end the pain was more than either of us could bear.  We said goodbye tonight, and its one of the harder days I've had.  This is what I told him…

Dear Hugo,

You were the best dog.  Period.  Thank you for sharing your too short life with us and teaching me how to love and really care for someone other than myself all those years ago.    I’m sorry for all the ways I screwed you up, I take full responsibility…but that’s what happens to the first kid.  You learn your lesson and do better.  Liesee and Poppy thank you for being my guinea pig.

On that Christmas Day when I unwrapped you and smelt your little puppy breath, I burst into tears.  To be clear, there is some debate about these waterworks. I always tell people I cried because I thought your father was going to propose (and that is true), but the whole truth is you were the most adorable, wonderful little puppy I had ever laid my eyes on.

You stole my heart within the first moment, and you stayed there and you always will. In fact, you stole the hearts of a whole group of 20 something’s that needed a dog to make their crappy apartments feel more like home.  You belonged to all of us.  You snuggled with us through heartbreak and happiness.  You were a sort of mascot and you were always our biggest fan, happy to see us and generous with your sloppy kisses.   Sorry we shuffled you around so much.  I don’t think I ever thanked you for being so adaptable. You were always good that way; quick to find the sunny spots or warm registers in each new place.

You did a lot of things that drove us nuts.  You snored louder than an obese man with sleep apnea.  But, I’ll miss that too.  It had kind of become the soundtrack of my sleep. 

Not sure what I’m going to do without your muscular little body tucked between my legs on cold winter nights.  You no doubt helped us save money on heating bills because you were our built in space heater.   You surprised quite a few dog sitters with that move too.  I always “forgot” to warn them about your tendency to really go for it.  You never discriminated, two warm legs was all you needed.

Sometimes you stepped on my face in the middle of the night, and this made me mad.  Sorry I got upset; I realize you were just trying to get comfortable.  I’m sure it was hard to share a bed with two humans.

You had a weird thing about doorbells.  I’m hoping Heaven is doorbell free, and you won’t have to worry about that anymore. 

You also had powerful pee. Remember that one time you peed on our air conditioning unit and we had to get a whole new one?  Well, I just wanted to tell you its ok.  We forgave you and actually used it as a selling point when we sold our house. ”Brand New AC Unit!”  But, seriously thanks for not ever doing that again.

You had your flaws but, man you were great at a lot of things.  You were the best snuggler.  And, you always knew when we needed you.  I wouldn’t have gotten through my pregnancies and miscarriage without your warm little body snuggled up to my side; your warmth always easing my pain. 

I don’t know that you actually understood us, but you had a way of listening where you tilted your head just so; that was pretty neat.  When we needed to see our best selves we just looked through your eyes. You were fearless, and tough, and had a bigger heart than a dog ten times your size. Your warm deep eyes saw and knew the best and worst of us…thank you for loving us anyway.

Your greatest roll was also probably your biggest demotion; top dog to big brother. Thanks for not running away when we brought Annaliese home from the hospital.  I know that was a big change, and you did way better than we expected.  As she turned from baby to toddler you were a good sport.  Thanks for letting her dress you up like a girl, poke your eyes and treat you like her baby doll.  When Poppy was born, you handled being humbled a second time with the same level of grace.  You were the best big brother, and the girls would like to personally thank you for helping them eat their peas. 

I hope you know that you are so very loved and so very very missed.  When you get to Heaven I hope you run wild and free.  No pain, no anxiety, just rivers of dog biscuits and mountains of warm fleece blankets.

Hugo Boss, I have no more words, just love.   Sleep well my dear friend, until we meet again.

Thankfully Yours.

Kate

My Tiny Ferret: Gatherer of Stuff*

I'm not sure why Tiny acts like a ferret and squirrels away all sorts of trinkets and trash, but its giving me heart palpitations.  I'm starting to worry she may have inherited her fathers need to save things "just in case."  He still talks about the coffee mugs I donated to charity two years ago.  I am a pitch-er, and live in a house of savers.  Clutter makes my skin crawl and so I get rid of things.

I've been caught multiple times by Tiny.  "Mommy!!  Why is my beautiful coloring page in the recycle bin?!"  She can't expect me to save every single piece of "art" she brings home from school, can she?  We hang the seasonal ones on the kitchen doors rotating as new projects come in, and the really sentimental ones I may hang onto a bit longer, but to her they are ALL special.  Everytime she catches me I pretend they accidentally fell in the bin, or when I'm really desperate I throw hubs under the bus.  (Note to self…start using the big recycle bin in the garage.)  Now before you judge, I'm not a total monster...I take pictures of the really cute ones thinking someday I'll Pinterest what to do with them.  Even I can't seem to part with anything made with a hand or footprint….I just can't bring myself to pitch baby toes…yet.

But its not just the art turned trash…she wants to save ACTUAL trash too.  Two nights ago as I was kissing Tiny goodnight I felt something in her little hand scratch my neck.  Upon further inspection she was carefully cuddling a tiny plastic hang tag that had been ripped from our latest Target couture.
Me: Uh, why are you holding that piece of garbage?
Tiny: It's not garbage mommmmy!!  It's special.
Me: Well, whatever it is, you can't sleep with it.  Can mommy have it so I can put it on your bookshelf?
Tiny:  No.
Me: Please.
Tiny: No.  I need to sleep with it.
Me: uhhhhhh…ok but just don't stick it in your mouth.  You could choke on that thing…and if you choke on that thing in the middle of the night I will be so mad at you.
Tiny: Ok, I won't. I'm just going to snuggle with it.

An hour later, I hear whimpering coming from her room…oh god is she choking?!?  I scale the stairs two by two prepared to do the heimlich.  But she's not choking, she's upset because she "lost" her little piece of plastic garbage.  Queue those crazy eyes again…this is weird, right?!?  I want to scream, but instead calmly vow to find it in the morning.  I did just that as I was making her bed, while Tiny was at school…and promptly threw it in the trash.  Later, "Mommy did you find my plastic?"  "No, honey it must have magically disappeared."  (Here's where you can nominate me for mom of the year.)

She also has a knack for gathering a collection of things. Maybe she's preparing for the future behemoth handbag she'll lug around someday full of everything from spare clothes to wipes to naked barbies (and yes that is the current contents of my purse), but tiny loves to put teeny tiny bits of stuff into any little container she can find.  There are tiny purses and gift bags and knick knack boxes all over my house that have been stuffed to the gils with little dolls, legos, crayons, puzzle pieces, wait! is that my diamond ring?, hair bows, scrabble tiles, cheerios and coins….and, it makes me feel crazy.

I'm not very type A but when it comes to toy organization I am a little kookoo.  I can't stand to have toys all mixed together, and right now Tiny's favorite game is toy soup.  Worst of all she "gifts" me these little treasure boxes of crap and I feign total joy. I know I'm supposed to be in the moment and I am, I really am, but I don't like toy soup.  I don't want my "food" to touch.

So what's a clutter-phob to do?  I'll tell you what…nothing.  I just bury my feelings under piles of baby-toe artwork and take it.  Someday she'll have something a whole lot worse in her bed and the contents of her purse will be as mysterious to me as a toddler's need to squirrel.   Instead, I'll politely say thank you for the box of treasures and kiss tiny pieces of plastic good night.

*if you haven't seen Ferrets: The Pursuit of Excellence this title is in reference to, stop everything you are doing and watch it now.

How long do you save this piece of fine art?

Tiny's latest snuggle buddy.

Exhibit A: Toy Soup

Exhibit B: Tiny's Special Suitcase

"Are these for my boobies?" - Tiny in reference to the coconuts.

The Ferret

Ferret in Training

"Are You Serious Right Now?"

We are having a challenging month.  Teeny is a speed crawler on the verge of walking and is very "curious." Read, she opens cabinets, eats tiny bits of god knows what off the floor (wait, is that a dead fly?!?) and I cannot take my eyes off of her for a single solitary moment.

And….Tiny is in the testing phase.  I'm the student, and I'm failing.  It's a cat and mouse game of lets see how far I can push mommy before she explodes.  She knows how to push my buttons better than anyone, well except maybe hubs….hmmm come to think of it, did he teach her these tactics?  are they plotting against me?  I digress. At any given moment I find myself on the brink of a toddler meltdown…but like Anna's frozen heart, the whole house melts down including this mama.

Tiny is getting in trouble.  But, how many times can you send a three year old to time out in the course of a week?  Is she learning anything?  Does she have to scream so loud? I wish I had a sound proof room.  Add sound proof glass room to my list of must haves in my dream house.  She has some seriously strong pipes.    I'm pretty sure she gets this from my side of the family; we are loud and we breed more loud people.  (And there folks is a glimpse at my internal monologue.)  Back to the point...

Tiny has this way of unnerving me.  When I'm trying to have a serious talk with her about throwing a fit, how to treat her sister or why kicking our seriously arthritic dog is a bad idea she comes back at me with one liners that knock me on my butt. She is a master of spin and I know I've said it before but its just possible she might be a genius.  That, or she's working with the CIA, and this is some crazy training regime grooming me for their terrorist negotiation division.

Her most impressive comebacks this week:

"Are you serious right now?" - Clearly she learned this from me.  What is wrong with me? For my part I know I've said this at the dinner table when I've gotten up and down from my seat a half a dozen times, I'm ready to finally take a nice big bite of my now luke warm food and she says, "I need more milk."  Enter me…"are you serious right now?"  Followed, of course, by "Tiny, if you want more milk you are going to have to use manners and ask the right way."  But, the quick response is leaving my mouth quicker than Catholics after communion.  And, she's taking notes, filing it under "I'm going to use that line later," and I'm dead serious right now.

"You're cracking me up." - Sometimes after a particularly rough day hubs has a little chat with Tiny.  And lucky for me, he has my back. Conversation goes something like this:

Hubs: "Tiny you really can't talk to your mommy that way. Throwing a fit will only get you in trouble.  You need to use your manners, blah, blah, blah."
Tiny: "Ha. You're cracking me up Dad."

Yep, true story. What's a parent to say?  She saw an opening and she took it.  And, like a bomb expert diffused the situation in seconds.  Soon we were all "cracking up."

"Remember that one time we saw a unicorn and it had pink hair?" - Here is where you can picture a cartoon me, with smoke coming out of my ears, hair sticking straight up and eyes rolled back in my rapidly spinning head.  "Are you serious right now? (oops, I did it again)  I'm trying to talk to you about why hiding in the unreachable tube at the very top of the Chikfila jungle gym is a bad choice. And you want to talk about UNICORNS?!?"  See?  Genius!

"Take a deep breath mom." - She's good.  And, (breathe in, breathe out) she's right.  So what if we are late to story time? Who cares if she won't let me brush her hair and chooses to dress like a Catholic school girl circa Hit Me Baby One More Time?  I need to pick my battles and just BREATHE.

Teeny showcasing her curiosity.
Poppy: 1 Christmas Ornament: 0

Practicing her listening skills.

They are sweet sisters most of the time.
It's really fun to watch them play together, until Teeny
grabs one too many of the Tiny's toys. POPPY!! 

If you look real close you can see a foot sticking
out of the tunnel.  On this day Tiny refused to nap
in her bed and opted to sleep in a tent next to it in protest.
I see activist in her future, already demonstrating a sit-in.

Are you serious?

It's Britney B!tch

Reality.  Loving is hard sometimes.