It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

Parades, Christmas plays, Santa, and decorations galore...

Thankful.

For family.

For my sous chef.

For kids who devour broccoli, brussels sprouts, okra, salmon, quiche, curry, and snapper. And at least one who spewed forth the word devour out of the blue the other night. And yes, she was referring to what she was doing to her okra.

For silly uncles.

And the best of Nanny laps.

For fun breakfasts.

And stolen kisses.

For healthy kids. Caped and all.

For sisterly love.

And adorably chubby thighs in adorably striped tights.

For Oooohs.

And Aaaaahhs.

Good books.

Good food.






Good friends.

Thankful for another year of all this and more. Happy Thanksgiving.

Tampa Visit

Golding Girls trek to Tampa to visit Aunt Stephanie and Uncle Brice. After a long weekend with this crew, I fear our hosts may reconsider any thoughts of providing the Es with any cousins...
The same may be true for our fellow plane passengers...

What? You're happy to give up your seat to give us more room? I can't imagine why...

Actually, the girls were angels on the flight. Elle happily asked questions about the mechanics of the plane (which I answered with the utmost of feigned confidence) and then watched a movie on my iPhone. Elise smiled, laughed, and flirted with everyone in sight, monopolizing the attention of the flight attendants for the duration of the trip. Blame us if your request for a diet coke or warm blanket went unattended.

Upon arrival we were met with seasonally inappropriate warm temperatures and my sweet genetic identical.

Even in Florida, pool temperatures are rather chilly in November. I couldn't tolerate putting my feet in, but Elle insisted she still wanted to go for a swim.

Really, Mommy, it's not at all cold!

Not to be outdone, Elise joined the arctic fun.

Not sure where they got the polar bear genes...

We frolicked in a bay-front park

And pondered life while atop oddly spinning playground apparatus.

There are many differences between my daughters. Perhaps the most divergent is their opinion of the canine world. Big sister adores the fluffy four-legged creatures, and tormented bonded immediately with Stephanie's dog.

Little sister's reaction to being within a 10-foot radius of Kasey made her vaccinations seem like DisneyWorld.(See photographic documentation of a rare successful sneak-up above).

Keep me away from that furball.

We watched Brave, ate cupcakes, and relished every minute of the time spent with our favorite Floridian.

And to cap off the weekend as only we can, Elise pooped in her Aunt's bathtub during the girls' bath one night. Why she chose their guest bathroom for her inaugural Code Brown, after 11 months of sparing ours, I do not know. What I do know is that it would have been our little secret if not for her sister's code of tattling ethics. I lifted Elle out of the tub and calmly explained to her what had happened and asked her to stand there for a minute while I assessed the best cleanup strategy. "Maybe we shouldn't tell Stephanie," I mused, "because this is pretty gross." Elle, dripping wet and buck-naked, vehemently shook her head. "No, no. It's her bathtub. She NEEDS to know!". And before I could stop her, she bolted out of the bathroom in a slippery streak of nakedness, bounding down the stairs to narrate the event to our hosts. Sigh. Those cousins may be a long time coming, indeed.

Back on the plane. Surprisingly, no one took the empty seat beside us...

Elle-isms

E, after losing her train of thought mid-sentence: What was I going to say?

Me: I don't know, sweetheart.

E: I wasn't asking you! I was asking my brain!

E: Do carrots grow on trees?
Me: No, they grow underground.
E: Well, how does the farmer know when they're ready?
Good question, indeed.

Before I go to kindergarten, I'm going to learn every word there is. And in Spanish and French.

I believe it, kiddo.

To her daycare teacher: "I'm having scallops for dinner tonight. They're delicious and packed with protein!"

E, demystifying her dinner strategy: I like to eat the things that don't taste good first. Then they don't mess up the taste of the good things in my mouth.

Me: What did you draw?
Elle: Our family. Me and Elise are flying kites. But we're only holding onto them with our giant thumbs.

E is constantly making up songs, which often are comprised of nonsensical words or phrases, but somehow always end up rhyming perfectly. 

E: I better take a bath tonight so my friends don't think you're a bad Mommy who lets her kids stink.
Hmmm. I do vaguely remember using this as a time-for-bath argument in the remote past...

Me: Elle, that picture is gorgeous!
Elle: Thank you! Is it so beautiful that you want to stay awake all night looking at it?

E: "Take a picture of me doing my batgirl pose"

Destined for Broadway

Ho ho ho

Together We Believe Holiday Card

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Glamour Shots

There is nothing glamorous about motherhood. 

Your hair is never done. "Makeup" means chapstick on a good day. Showers are utilitarian at best, and are of duration that would make the most ardent Water Conservation lobbyist proud. 

Your wardrobe consists entirely of items that can withstand the test of BabySnot, Spitup, Drool, and a host of other unmentionable bodily fluids.

You can't remember the last time you sat down for a meal without being asked for 2,385 things that are suddenly deemed vital to the eating process. Milk. More milk. Cut this. Into triangles, not rectangles. (Insert food item here) can only be consumed with my (insert color/type/character here) spoon. Slide me up. Etc.

In fact, you can't remember the last time you sat down for a meal at all.

You get bit while nursing, and not just any bite but a bite-twist-pull bite that makes you wonder why God allows teeth to erupt in the mouths of babes under a year of age. As if that isn't punishment enough, thanks to the combination of open wound and Baby MouthGerms, you then develop full-on sepsis with 104 degree fever and feel as if you will surely die.

You are never fashionably late. Instead, you are beyond-ridiculously-often-miss-the-event-entirely late. Or glad-your-colleagues-need-you-in-the-call-pool-so-you-won't-get-fired late.

A wild night means staying up past 9pm. Bonus points if you're doing something other than making bottles, washing bottles, or cleaning pump parts.

You don't flinch at backwash. Or identifiable completely intact food items in diapers. 

Indeed, motherhood is no Glamour Shot. But give me one of these million-watt baby smiles, or the unbridled joy of a groovin' 10-month-old and I'll gladly forsake the feather boas, hairsprayed bangs, and bright blue eye shadow. 

Turns out, glamour is overrated.