Birthday parties, smirthday parties.

Hell, I guess I should just be thankful that it wasn't quite as painful as the c-section, right?

We made Birthday Cake Cones. I thought they'd be less messy than regular cake… Man, I hate being wrong.

She blew/spit/hummed each and every one of her candles… There were six. And, yes, I know that she's only two, but the rest of the cupcakes looked naked.  And this was a g-rated party. (I don't post pictures of the ones that aren't… Red tape, don't 'ya know.)

It took a while on that last one… She focused so hard on it at one point, her eyes were crossed. But she was actually miraculously sitting still, so I took the picture anyhow.

And then she proceeded to lick the top of every one.

It was a messy, loud, and sugary affair that had me digging through the medicine cabinet on the off-chance that the happy gods took pity on me and left me a ten gallon drum of Quaaludes. 

Next year, I'll pray harder.

Or is it the other way around?

So we're finally back from Louisiana… It was an incredibly rainy, yucky, sardine-like adventure from which I've yet to recover, but here's a brief re-cap for your reading pleasure!

On the Road:

We took Peter's truck, a Something or another Something or another Extended Cab, since it seats six as compared to my car's five. And as there were six of us including my 26-year-old sister on the trip, it seemed the best choice… Although a mere Something or another Something or Another, no matter how extended the cab may be, really shouldn't be considered an option of ANY sort for two adults, two car seats, an eight-year-old, and a nine hour drive.

I am so getting a new car- perhaps a bus?- after Christmas.

Thanksgiving Day:

I spent the majority of the day watching my mother and aunt's slapstick cooking routine in the kitchen. It was a train wreck  that included  two near casualties (the supervising grandparents), 52 elbow jabs, 123 rolled eyes, 28 mutters of the word bitch, 4 loads of dishes, and 1 bottle of magic sage.

Dinner was excellent.

The Day After:

I was physically forced to venture out on Black Friday by my mother-in-law (from hell)… The mother-in-law (from hell) who shall from this moment forth be known by her true name: SATAN. Because only SATAN would be kind enough to gracefully give you a hundred dollars to "buy whatever you want" and then take whatever steps necessary to ensure that you buy exactly what she thinks you should have…

And as she seriously wanted me to have two freaking wall sconces that I'd never buy for myself but now must hang someplace in my house in order to prevent the Apocalypse, she  most definitely deserves the title.

Peter was lucky enough to be an LSU fan in Louisiana for their game against Arkansas… The game that they lost, of course. Peter is now lucky enough to be an LSU fan in Arkansas. Not quite payback for his SATAN mother, but it's a step in the right direction.

The Drive Home:

It rained… And the truck somehow got smaller.

Sunday:

I ran away and went to see August Rush all by my lonesome, leaving Peter here with his still-revved up (and now snotty) children. Not quite payback for his SATAN mother, but it's yet another step in the right direction, eh? :)

So now we're back and settled (somewhat), and I find myself with 300 emails, newly printed Christmas cards, Mommy Matter brouhaha, and a blogreader-full to get to… which I'm going to, just as soon as I find a place to hang these fucking $100 sconces.

Hope your holiday was lovely and that you missed me terribly!

Oh! And don't forget to check out my latest post over at Mother's Fighting for Others!

Dear B*'s mom

Please let B* come to my party can he. I am B* is my friend it will be fun let him come We will be playing are games so let him be playing a lot of games he is my Best friend in all wide world so it will so much fun if you say no I be mad. ceck yes or no

from RJ

Dear RJ,

I am a grown-up and do not respond to threats.

B*'s Mom

*Little Man has informed me that RJ's party is in July and will be from 4:14pm until 11:02pm.

Is it wrong to equate such a joyous and entertaining place for children with Hell?

Because, truly, those double-paned doors at the entrance of the local Chuck E. Cheese evoke something within me very similar to what Dante must have felt before passing through that fearsome gate.

Monday evening we spent the day gallivanting around the Capital and the Little Shakespeares convinced us that ol' Chuck's was the perfect place for a greasy dinner and games. Amid a chorus of forceful "we'll behave, mama"s and tearful "puhleeeeaze"s, Peter and I shared a commiserating look and turned the valiant minivan in the direction so desired by our children.

Two hours, eighty dollars, several handfuls of hair, countless brain cells, and nine circles later; I knew the true meaning of purgatory.

Little Man adamantly saved his reward vouchers for the next visit.

Somebody shoot me.

I've decided that my children are monkeys (yeah, yeah, I know; we're all monkeys). They've all recently entered some sort of crawling/leaping/swinging phase.

Thankfully, they've yet to throw poop.

A few days ago, that little one somehow managed to slither out of her highchair, perch on the tray, leap across the way to my antique sideboard, and stand tall while screaming something oddly similar to "King of the World!"- all in a matter of seconds.

This afternoon, that middle one (who will be 3 next month) was sitting at the table eating his carrots when I heard him say something along the lines of more Mama. I was in the middle of a very danger-fraught expedition through the bowels of hell known as this week's laundry and told him to go ahead and get some more. This is common as I keep the kid's snacks (healthy ones) readily available in the bottom drawer of the fridge…

A bang, thud, and waterfall of pings and pangs later, I turned around to see this:

It seems that the kitty was the one who wanted more. The angel that he is, my toddler hopped, skipped, and swung himself from the floor to the countertop and then to the top shelf to get that bag of cat chow- which he then promptly emptied onto my laundry room floor. Helpful little bugger, ain't he?

I have officially reconsidered my stance on baby leashes.