Thomas the Train and other happenings

When I ordered tickets to ride Thomas at 9:45 AM, I failed to realize that was the morning after prom. And let me tell you, the morning after prom is a lot harder on my 27 year old self than it was my 17 year old self. 

Reese stayed at MeeMaw and PeePaw's while we were gone  There was an attempt to get her to spend the night, but it was a failure. MeeMaw said somewhere around dark she started looking down the driveway calling for her ma-ie. We helped clean up after prom and picked her up by midnight which is a solid 3 hours past Granny's normal bedtime. I made history in my own life when I was so tired I couldn't even take off my makeup before I crashed into bed. I told Adam how I remember reading somewhere (I'm sure it was some magazine that gave (at best) questionable beauty advice) that every time you go to bed with makeup on, you age your face 10 years. Considering how I felt and looked when the alarm went off at 6 Saturday morning, I'd say that information wasn't as questionable as I had once thought it was.

She liked seeing Thomas, but the "jumpy" and the sand box were by far her favorites. Fear coursed through my veins when I realized that we may have to invest in a sand box because it would provide hours of entertainment for her. Why? Because here is a comprehensive list of things I hate (I know hate is a strong word, but it fits the scenario) : 1. needles 2. sand. In that exact order. I go to great links to ensure no sand gets above my ankles at the beach. The thought of it in my very own yard makes me need to breath deeply into a paper bag.

 There is nothing that makes me love motherhood as much as a picture where my baby makes me look 30 pounds heavier by squeezing my face as hard as she can.

On the way home I apparently did something she didn't like: "Ma-ie Caroline not do dat gin!" (Mommy Caroline do not do that again) She thinks everybody's middle name is Caroline. 

I have gotten bad reports from Mrs. Liz 3 days in a row, so Monday night I spanked her with a wooden spoon when she started pitching a fit. Seriously people, I barely tapped her. I can assure you, it hurt me WAY more than it did her. She laid in the floor and cried, "my booty hurt!!" She tends to be a little on the strong willed side and she screams and cries for minutes on end when she doesn't get her way. Liz said it went on for an hour last Thursday. I've been talking to Jesus a lot about it (well, more like begging, pleading) and I really think this is a just a stage. She is two and a half and they don't call them the terrible twos for nothing. I bought a big bag of Lego blocks and the first day I get a good report she will get them. I'm shamelessly bribing her. Please refrain from leaving comments on how that is going to scar her for life. She knows about the blocks and listed off all the things she and her daddy are going to build with them- if she ever gets them. 

When I was telling my parents about all this I told them that I told Liz to put her on the porch and close the door and when she quit crying she could come back in. My daddy went into a rant about how I shouldn't have told her to do that because what if something got her outside: 

Me: "Like what, daddy? She will be on Liz's back porch." 

PeePaw: "I don't know. A hawk might swoop down and get her." 

Clearly he is an asset to me on getting advice about how to discipline my daughter. And he isn't at all dramatic. You can now stop wondering where I get some of my paranoia/ need to overreact. This brought to mind one of my favorite parts of Father of the Bride when George explained to future son-in-law Bryan the heritage to which he was about to wed...

"You know, Bryan, Annie's a very passionate person. And passionate people tend to overreact at times. Annie comes from a long line of major over-reactors  Me. I can definitely lose it. My mother. A nut. My grandfather. Stories about him were legendary. The good news, however, is that this overreacting... tends to get proportionately less by generation. So, your kids could be normal." 

It might as well have been my daddy speaking those words to Adam because no truer words have ever been spoken. And I say that with a great deal of love and affection toward my family.

Last week we were "atside" playing and out of the corner of my eye I saw something. Was it? Could it be? No. No way. Except for yep it sure was. A snake. IN THE YARD! STEPS AWAY FROM MY INNOCENT BABY! I panicked. Called Adam, no answer. Called my daddy, no answer. Which, after this event, no longer surprises me when I can't get an answer. So at that point I was just in a stare off with said snake while I threatened Reese's life if she put one toe off that trampoline I was going to whip her all the way down the driveway. I continued calling random people that I thought could help me. Then my knight and shinning armor drove up, said he couldn't believe I even saw the snake, (Note to self: 1. don't send Reese outside alone with him.2. get his eyes checked) and chopped the little rattlers head off with a shovel. Which was exact what I had planned to do...NEVER. I was thinking more along the lines of the pistol. Either way it is dead, but the fact that it has a mother and father somewhere is heavy on my heart.

*She finally got the blocks Tuesday afternoon. All night she repeatedly told me, "I get roll (tootsie roll) I poop in the potty. I get bwoks (blocks) I not cry at Bezebeth's (Elizabeth's)!"

I adore this picture. Here is to hoping that, one day, she gets as lucky as her momma got;)