A Charmed Life

Resisting A Rest

Yeah, yeah, I know, it's not Monday yet.  It's called "I'm the Mommy so I make the rules".  Or, you know, poetic license.

Seph is entering a stage where Bedtime has become The Unspeakable Evil, to be avoided at all costs. Her first line of defense is rather benign and consists of her running away from her otherwise beloved princess pajamas, yelling, "Noooo!  I go dwessed!!!"  Then she breaks out the big guns with "I hungwy!!".  It doesn't matter how much she's had to eat for dinner, either.  She turns into a nocturnal Hobbitt and demands "second dinner". This is very distressing to a good Italian mamma like myself, because what if she really is hungry?  The one time I let her "cry it out" on and off for two hours after her bedtime?  She really was hungry.  She plowed through two hard-boiled eggs like a bodybuilder and was out like a light. 

Once I've called her bluff on dinner, she switches tactics and turns to bargaining. All I can think is, her uncle is an attorney, and this is in the genes.  She  must have picked up on my love of reading, because her last line of defense is to lug her giant pink Disney Princess book (a birthday present from the aforementioned uncle) over to me and beg, "A tewwy?  Peeese, a tewwy??"  ("A story, please?  A story?"  Also, I think my spellcheck is going to explode.)

Chef's salad at bedtime, no.  A story?  Very reasonable, so why not?  Why not, indeed.  The stories in the book are a little advanced for her attention span at the moment, but she's a Disney fanatic so I tell her about the characters and the plot, anyway.  Guess which story is in the book?  Sleeping Beauty.  Here's me trying to explain: "This is Princess Aurora.  Her other name is Briar Rose. She's called "Sleeping Beauty because somebody gave her some bad..oh crap, can't say "medicine"...stuff, and it made her go to sleep! Ohh, double crap...I mean, sleeping is good, but not for her, and...hey, let's read Snow White and the Seven Dwarves!  You moron...your child loves apples...you wanna scar her for life??  Oh wait, here's Cinderella instead, let's read that one! 

Seph: (pointing to Evil Stepmother) "Who eez dat?"  Mommy:  That's her evil stepmother, who's mean to her...like you, putting her to bed without eggs...it's not her real mommy, though...oh great, teach her a nice rigid definition of "family"...

Seph: (pointing to Cinderella sweeping the floor) "What doing??" Mommy: She's sweeping the floor, because her stepmother and stepsisters are mean and make her do all the work...oh man, this is so coming back to haunt me the first time I assign her chores...

Luckily, after tonight's storytime fiasco, she decided to be Sleepy instead of Grumpy and went down without a fuss.  Now I'm the one who won't go to bed.  I'm finished writing my "tewwy", so maybe I'll go fix myself a snack. I hungwy.

Now go hug your mommies!

Oceans of Fun

I hope everyone's week is off to a great start!  I just had the best Monday ever.  One of my best buds, T., came out from the Wilds of Colorado with her 8 year-old son, R., for an unexpected visit. Well, to me, at least, since it was R.'s spring break and she'd obviously planned it ahead of time. Knowing how much I adore surprises, she called me when she was already halfway to San Diego, and asked me to meet them at Sea World this morning. 

I miss being able to hang out with T. like we used to when she lived here.  We'd always have fun together doing the most ordinary things.  I love her and her son to death and there's nothing I wouldn't do for them, which is probably why she roped me into going onto the combination roller coaster/water ride with him.  She stayed behind to spend some time with Sephie, who she hasn't seen since last May.  As I listened to the excited chatter of the young man having his "Best. Vacation.  Ever.", I couldn't help but think back to the day he was born- honestly, one of the best days of my life.  What's a little cold water on a sort-of-breezy day, next to an honor like that of being Auntie Deb to such a great kid?  Besides, I'm no dummy, I'll just take off my (thin!  but with SPF 30!) hoody and ride the coaster in my T-shirt, so that I'll have something dry to slip over any upcoming wardrobe malfunctions.

Brrr.  The ride was fun and we did get wet, but it was my pants that got soaked, instead.  Think SpongeDeb WetPants.  So much for looking like a sexy, tousled MILF- I got to walk around for the next hour looking like I had on a wet diaper. 

The child actually wearing the diaper probably had the best time out of all of us!  T. said that she was laughing hysterically at the boats on the coaster, squealing, "SPLASH!!  Again?  Again??"  We got to watch the "byooga!" (beluga) whales being fed and having "rubba tummies?" (They really did look like they wanted their tummies rubbed.)  Seph was a little frightened of the polar bear growling sounds being piped through the "Arctic Encounters" exhibit, saying she was "'cared, monter!" (scared of the monster), but I told her to just hold onto my hand, because mommies don't taste good and monsters tend to leave them alone.  She wasn't at all scared of the bat rays and would gladly have jumped right into the tank with them.  And she batted her long black eyelashes at R. at lunch until he let her have some of his chocolate layer cake.  Eating together was just like old times, trading bites of dessert like we always have. 

Seph and I sure had a whale of a good time, even though we never got to see Shamu.  (Whatever's been going wrong with my eye started acting up again- I think it's an allergic reaction to the pollen count lately, gumming up my contacts- so we left early and I ended up driving the 35 miles home with one itchy eye closed most of the way.)  It was so nice to see our friends again, and I can't wait to move so that we can be closer by and get to see each other more often.  Theme parks are great fun, but I'll be just as happy to drive down to visit them in their cozy house, in their friendly small town, and have fun doing ordinary things again.  After all, (with apologies to Marlin in "Finding Nemo"), with friends like these, who needs anemones?

Have a great week...and go kiss your mommies!

Here's To You, Pattysue

It's Mommy Monday!  I'd like to dedicate this week's post to Tricia "Pattysue" Lawrenson.  She's a young woman with cystic fibrosis, awaiting the double lung transplant that will save her life at Duke University Hospital.  She's the adored wife of Nate and the proud new mommy of Gwyneth Rose, who despite being born two months ago at over 15 weeks premature, is now breathing completely on her own!  Gwyneth is also gorgeous, to boot, but then, I'm kind of a fan ;)  You can read more of their story here.

ApplePieMom over at Crazy In Love wrote a beautiful post in Tricia's honor, telling her all the things she can't wait for her to be able to experience with Gwyneth.  You see, Tricia can't so much as touch her own daughter's skin, for fear of infection taking away her chances of the lung transplant surgery.  Not to mention, Gwyneth is still in the NICU, and will be for some time, so visitation is pretty limited for her anyway.  They're not even on the same floor, and Tricia has only gotten to see and hold her daughter in the last week.  Even with so many people hoping and praying for this family, the hard truth of the matter is that Tricia will only get to do all of the things that we other moms take for granted (and even complain about) if she lives long enough to receive, and survive, her transplant.  I'm sure Tricia would love to be able to put up with half of the craziness that we put up with from our little rugrats precious offspring.  So, with my "eyes on the prize", here's what I wish for you, Pattysue:

• the "oh-no you-din't" look on Ralphie the cat's face the day Gwyneth reaches for his tail
• the "really?  for Me??" look on Meka the pug's face when you bring her home a baby to lick applesauce and Cheerios from
• really big, poopy diapers.  The kind you have to call Nate in from the other room to see, because just *what* did that healthy baby EAT?
• Hours of the Home Shopping Network because that's the only thing on at two in the morning, and ooh, pancake puffs! 
• Rosy little baby toes.  Dee-licious. Now, where did that stupid sock go?
• The sound a little bellybutton makes when you zerbert it
• Baby giggling.  Someone needs to bottle that!
• Crayon marks.  EVERYWHERE.  May I recommend Magic Erasers and an Etch-a-Sketch?
• a baby who ignores the hotel crib on the vacation you FINALLY get to go on and who will only sleep if she is lying across your face. And you let her.  And you can actually sleep this way
• having a little person around who mimics EVERYTHING you say and do, including walking around with a calculator held up to her ear like a phone
• hearing the little "i sowwy, mommy" when she realize you've caught her red-handed, going through your purse to play with your lipgloss. AGAIN.

• trying desperately not to laugh while lecturing a small girl who is covered in lipgloss

There are so many other moments that I could list here, but I really don't want to push the envelope of "waterproof" mascara.  Suffice it to say that there isn't a moment when my daughter is driving me nuts (and she's 2 and half, so you do the math on how often that might be) that I don't stop and think that this particular brand of insanity is a privilege. (Nuts are good for you, after all.)  Clothes and babies and walls all come clean, and at the end of the day, she's not in the corner, but safe in my arms, where all little ones should be.  Tricia, you make me humble and grateful to be a mom.   Happy "Mommy Monday" to you, and many, many more.

Love always,

Debbie and Persephone

Pails, By Comparison

I know it's a little late for a "Mommy Monday" post, but I figure, it's still technically Monday, I'm a mommy, and I have to stay up late anyway.  Baci's housebreaking is in progress, and although I don't mind setting an alarm for the middle of the night to take him out to do his business, I don't want to set it for twice in one night.  So I've been going to bed late and splitting my sleep into two shifts.  I'm tired, but it beats having to clean dog pee out of a crate.  He's been a good boy and doesn't seem to like being dragged out of bed at four in the morning any more than I do, so maybe he'll decide to learn to hold it sooner rather than later.

I got the idea for this post after finding an old pocket notebook of mine the other day.  It has a pug on it (our other dog, Winston, is a black pug) and was a stocking stuffer from Dave the Christmas of 2005.  I guess I hadn't used it much, because only two of the pages have writing on them.  The first one has the phone number of the Sarasota County Sheriff's Dept. on it.  I hadn't thought about that in two years...I remember hearing that my mom was critical again on Christmas Eve, and I needed to contact my uncle, her estranged brother, in a hurry, and didn't have his home number.  I remember dialing the department as I was walking into a holiday party. 

The writing on the second page is a little more bittersweet- it's the last game of Hangman I ever played with my mom.  We both loved all kinds of word games and it wasn't uncommon for us to play Hangman on a napkin while out to lunch together.  I always made her laugh by drawing hair and clothing on the little man to give her more chances to guess the word.  This one has one shoe on already, and it was only a five-letter word: F-U-D-G-E.  As in, the only dessert Mom ever royally messed up. The family saying was, "please pour me a glass of fudge".

Long story short, finding that notebook made me think about all the things I'd like to do before I die.  As in a bucket list, or what you'd like to do before kicking the bucket.  I haven't seen the Jack Nicholson/ Morgan Freeman movie on the subject, but it's an intriguing idea.  Except for the bungee jumping they supposedly do.  Why does every dying person in a movie or TV program want to go bungee jumping?  I don't want to soil myself on the way down, only to have to face my best friend with that when they haul me up again. I want to be remembered with my dignity intact, thank you.

Without further ado, here's a sampling of my Bucket List, or what I would do/try to get away with if I had a terminal illness and only a few months to live:

1) Find the whitest, sandiest beach with the clearest, warmest water and park my bikinied behind there for at least two weeks.  Massages daily in one of those thatched huts by the water.  Eat fresh fish, pineapple and consume many frozen drinks.  Care not for how the bikini fits after all those drinks, because I am a dying woman and everyone else can just kiss my ashes.

2) Load up with music, books and snacks, and take train ride all the way up the Pacific Coast to Alaska to see the Northern Lights.  Hope that the bloodthirsty mosquitoes attacking me catch whatever terminal illness I have.

3) Rent expensive luxury convertible and drive cross-country.  Pick up BFFE's along the way and stop at greasy spoons and Grand Canyon.  Calories not an issue, because again, am dying woman here.

4) Get exceedingly drunk in country-western bar, line-dance, and ride mechanical bull.  (Seriously, I have always wanted to try this!  I am far more likely to need the drink to dance than to ride.)  Emerge unscathed because have had forethought to fatten up behind ahead of time for softer landing.

5) Drive to my old hometown. Track down the girl who hung my bra on the flagpole at Band Camp and humiliated me senior year, and stuff her in the trunk of my luxury convertible.  Enjoy long, leisurely lunch at genuine East Coast diner before leaving car in long-term Airport Parking.  (OK, I'm joking. Long-term parking is very expensive.  And she probably wouldn't fit in the trunk anyhow. Meeoowww..)

6) First-class flight to Italy.  Gorge self on chocolates in Perugia. Take side trip to Assisi and ask St. Francis to save me a spot in Heaven next to my dogs. Buy owl for my collection.  Hey, not dead yet!

7) Take death-defying car ride down Amalfi Coast, or ski lift from northern Italy into Chamonix, France, depending on the season and which one feels scarier. Calm nerves with cannoli.

Hmm...now I'm really tired, and extremely hungry!  I'll have to think about the rest of my list later.  In the meantime, how about sharing an item from your bucket list?  Consider yourself tagged if you want to be- just post your links!  And, don't forget to hug your mom today!

Leave No Mom Behind

January 21, 2006.  Inarguably, the worst day of my life, the last day of my mother's life.  This picture, however, was taken several weeks earlier, shortly before Christmas of 2005.  It's badly-lit with poor resolution because I took it in her hospital room with my cell phone, but you can still see how young she was-only 53.  You can't see the beautiful new opal earrings she has on, her last Christmas present from my dad, but you probably can tell that although she's puffy from the steroids and sporting an oxygen tube under her nose, she looks cheerful, and happy to have her baby granddaughter on her lap.  She's not just mugging for the camera- her great attitude was a huge part of her personality.  I wish I had a picture of her a few minutes later, with the BIPAP oxygen unit.  She put her hands behind her ears and made elephant noises with the hose as her "trunk" to make the baby laugh.

In case anyone is reading her story for the first time, Mom died of lung cancer, 18 months after diagnosis. The carcinoma was only found after it was so enormous that her only recourse was to lose the entire lung.  After the surgery, she wasn't allowed to eat for five days., after which she threatened cannibalism to all visitors to her room.  When the hospital gave her the swallowing test with barium pudding, she cheekily asked for the recipe.  When the cancer returned, she was put on oral chemotherapy and promptly suffered many painful side effects and a massive staph infection that put her on a ventilator and feeding tube for a week.  When she regained consciousness, they kept the feeding tube in for a few days...which she spent watching the Food Network and jotting down new recipes for when she could return home to cook.  Obviously, it was going to take more than the number-one cancer killer to keep this woman down.

Except, there was nothing more that could be done for her.  The amount spent on research annually per case on lung cancer in this country is just over a tenth of that spent on breast cancer, even though lung cancer kills more Americans than breast, prostrate, pancreatic and colorectal cancers COMBINED. What this means in practical terms is that a lung cancer patient runs out of options pretty darn fast. Why such a stingy budget for a disease that is the number-one cancer  killer?  Probably the stigma of tobacco use, even though half of the cases are former smokers, or never-smokers like my mom.  It's unfair to everyone, because the implication is that smokers deserve what they get. I got to watch lung cancer kill, and trust me when I say, nobody deserves to die like that. Not to mention that assigning blame is a slippery slope.  What's next, we stop calling 911 if a fat person is having a heart attack?  We're better than that.

It's not enough to only feel compassion for others, or sorrow for loved ones lost.  We have to take action if we want to see change happen.  That's why I've decided to dedicate the next several months training to run the 10th Annual Boulder Backroads Marathon to raise funds for cancer research in my mother's honor. I'm not, by any stretch of the imagination, an athlete.  But my mom wasn't a smoker, and she managed to get lung cancer, so I think I have the odds covered. 

Mom was a devout Catholic and therefore unafraid to die.  She was, however, terrified at the thought of leaving all of us behind, grieving for her.  That's why I''m calling her fund the Debra Angelo Leave No Mom Behind Fund.  Everyone is somebody's baby, and every time a life is snuffed out, that person leaves behind a family that loves and needs them.  It's too late to save my mom.  My daughter will never get to see what a fantastic grandma she was.  But I'm going to run my heart out and do my small part to make sure that someday, a mother and her child won't have to say goodbye so soon. 

I need your help, though.  Please visit my page and consider making a donation in my mother's name. The LUNGevity Foundation is a wonderful organization and the top grant-making nonprofit funding lung cancer research.  Any amount you can give will  make a difference. If you can't give, you can sign my guest book instead to lend your encouragement, and share the link to my page with someone else.  "Cough it up for lung cancer" is a lousy slogan. I'd ask only that you take a look, think it over, and do what you can.  Anything you can do is greatly appreciated.

I don't know what else to write.  I miss my mother more than anything I'll ever write can express.  I can't sit by while this happens to another daughter, or another mom, not while I have breath in my two healthy lungs and running shoes that fit.  Feets, don't fail me now.

Princess Bridezilla

Well, it had to happen sometime...Seph has discovered the world of Disney princesses.  I've found that it's not such a small world, after all- you can get this stuff everywhere!  It doesn't even have to be Disney to meet with her approval- some weeks ago she put a Froot Loop on her head as an ersatz tiara and declared herself "Pincess!"  She clomps around in oversized dress-up shoes, twirls at the slightest provocation, demands nightly "Bubbles?  Baff!" and her "fingers...nails!" painted.  Pink, of course.

It's not all giggles and glass slippers.  She is almost two-and-a-half (holy mackerel, when did THAT happen?), and as such has learned that even princesses- especially princesses-can be royal pains.  Her new favorite phrase is "No nanks!"  ("No thanks!")  Sometimes it works:  "Sephie, would you like some more milk?"  "No nanks!".  Other times I think she's missing the point: "Seph, do you have a dirty diaper?"  (asked only when the air around her starts to turn green and the EPA is knocking at our door with forms to sign).  Her immediate response, "No, NANKS!!"  At such moments I am tempted to quote Inigo Montoya and reply, "You keep using that word.  I do not think it means what you think it means."

She won't leave my purse alone.  She's obsessed with my strawberry lip balm and when I catch her in the act, cries piteously, "a-yips?  [lips]  A-YIPS??"  If she thinks she's prepping for more kissable lips, she has another think coming, because she's not allowed to date until she's 30 or has her third Ph. D., whichever comes first.  Unreasonable?  Perhaps, but I'm trying to put off our discussion of the real meaning of "Someday my prince will come" until...never?

It's still a pretty fun stage.  I can get her to do just about anything with the explanation of "but that's how princesses do it!"  And watching her try to blow on her wet fingernails with a pacifier in her mouth while tottering on sequined plastic shoes...well, who needs cable?  I am laughing my petticoats off over here.  At night, when I tell her, "I love you, Princess Sephie", she sleepily mumbles "Pincess...Mommy".  So I have carpet fuzz in my lip balm.  Would I trade this day job for anything?

No, nanks.  Happy Mommy Monday...have you hugged your mother today??

The Task Of Zorro

This is Seph on Halloween, fulfilling her mother's 23-year dream of once again procuring free candy from strangers.  Yes, I know I am a grownup now and can buy my own, but I'm addicted to the thrill of the hunt.  I can eat up to the limit of the waistband on my jeans, and who's gonna stop me?  Honestly, it's like taking candy from a baby...

I was pretty excited to actually find a "Zorro" costume for her, since that was what I was planning to dress her as after she drew all those W's on our freshly-painted walls with that Sharpie marker.  Looking back, it could have been much worse: she could have drawn Dubyas on the wall instead.  Do you like the shoes?  When they told me at the store that MaryJanes went with everything, I highly doubt they were picturing an ensemble with a cape!  The shoes even have sparkly flowers on them!  I suppose they didn't call Zorro the "gay blade" for nothing.

The photo was taken at the beginning of our evening of pillaging, at the home of Seph's godfather's mom, an old family friend who we decided should be our first "victim".  Seph doesn't have any candy yet, but she looks that happy because she's attempting to abscond with the Halloween decor.  Once I pried her away from the full bag of Milky Way minis that she insisted on emptying into her borrowed "punkin!", we headed to Clifton, a city in northern NJ that is the most perfect trick-or-treat locale I have ever seen.   The houses are on level ground, close together and festively decorated.  Did I mention they were close together?  My longtime college buddy J., who lives in town, was our escort for the evening.  (He also found my great-grandma's old house for me..I could have sworn that house was twice as big..)  After his mom made an enormous fuss over my little bandit, we cleaned out his neighborhood within about a five block radius and ended up completely filling the pumpkin with candy.  Ahhhhhh. =)  And, since we figured we'd burned about 10,000 calories apiece toting around a  two year-old, we headed down to the local pizza place afterwards.  Bad mommy that I am, I let Seph eat two Reeses' peanut butter cups and a mini Kit-Kat bar before our pie arrive, and as a result she didn't touch even a bite of it.  Oh well...if you can't let your child gorge themselves on candy once a year, what kind of a parent are you, right?

Seph had a fantastic time (as did I), and wasn't scared a bit- not even by the Freddy Krueger-clad neighbor who sprang out of the bushes at us.  (I was just glad I was wearing dark pants.)  My turn to be slightly apprehensive came the next morning, at the Mass for All Saints' Day.  It was Seph's first Mass- I don't bring her to church with me at home since there's no childcare.  While in the line for Communion, I realized what it must look like to her and started fervently praying, "oh, please God, don't let her say "trick or treat!"

Jump In The [Security] Line

Seph and I flew home almost a full week ago and I am so mad at myself for my writer's block that I haven't posted up until now.  (Yes, I do realize that makes zero sense.)  Between everything that's going on that I do want to talk about and everything going on that I don't want to talk about, I feel like the centipede that couldn't remember how to walk once someone asked her which foot came first.  Heck, maybe she actually did know which foot came first, but she was so busy tying her dang shoelaces that she never got to go anywhere.

Did you know, when you travel with a toddler, you have to take off *their* shoes as well while going through security?  I have no real problem with this, even though it's kind of a pain, especially if you're traveling alone with one.  Better safe than blown to smithereens, I always say.  What I do have a problem with is that for that rule to be in place, it means someone is messed-up (I can think of a better word but I truly hate the taste of soap) enough to have thought of placing dangerous substances in children's footwear.  Seriously, if you're that committed to a life of terrorism, you need to be an adult about it and use the standard hiding place, so that the rest of us contracting some deadly strain of athlete's foot and/or pneumonia from standing there in our stocking feet can at least enjoy a quiet chuckle when we hear the snap! of a disposable rubber glove.

I tend to have a good time in the security line, though.  Last spring I was traveling alone, without Sephie, and I got wanded to the point that I was stunned not to receive a dinner invitation afterwards.   Of course this was only after they stuck me behind glass for a good five or ten minutes while they rounded up the Female Body Inspector. I'm pretty sure they only let me out because I was doing my best impression of "mime stuck in a box" behind the guard's back.   Then the FBI had the nerve, no, the stupidity, to ask me, "Are you wearing an underwire bra?"  Hello, I'm an F-cup, if I weren't wearing underwire. the girls would be on the conveyor belt along with my shoes.  Honestly, I'm lucky I don't have to count them as my personal item.  One final search of my belt line area and I was free to go- which means they missed out completely on my traditional Metal Detector Dance.  No, seriously, I've discovered that I completely unconsciously sing and dance to the exact same song every time I go through the metal detector at the airport. I think it has something to do with the fact that I don't dance, except if I'm home in my stocking feet.  My "soundtrack" of choice is "Jump In the Line" by Harry Belafonte.  Ever seen it danced as a tango?  with a toddler? No?  You're really missing out ;) 

Hmmpf, stuck again.  I guess this should be a short post, since I still have to go move some boxes and stuff for tomorrow's big rug and tile cleaning extravaganza.  I'm having my grout cleaned, which is both much less sexy and much more expensive than it sounds.   Coming soon:  my 23-year quest for free Halloween candy comes to a successful end; why nobody can hold a candle to old friends, and why I can't possibly blame the zit on my face on the oil of chrism Seph got all over me after her baptism. 

In the meantime, if anyone at Liberty International Airport saw a busty thirtysomething mom in a skirt and argyle tights trying to limbo under a security wand last week?  Totally wasn't me. 

The Writing Is On The Wall

Whaddaya mean, it's not the weekend yet?!  I really need it to be Friday instead of Monday, because I really have to pee.  And apparently, that's not safe to do with an unrestrained toddler in the house, so I'm just going to have to hold it until Dave gets home.

Sephie (or "Feffie", as she has now learned to call herself) has developed two minor obsessions in the last few weeks: markers, and the letter W ("BUH-boo!").  Unfortunately, her new hobbies coincide with the distinct lack of baby gate leading into our great room and kitchen, since the contractors won't be done until the end of the week. Leaning it against the wall with a chair to prop it up wasn't sufficient deterrent for the daughter of an engineer, and in the time it took me to walk to the back bathroom, use the facilities, and return, she was standing in the cat's water bowl, uncapped marker in hand.  (No, M., I do NOT take all day in the bathroom!  One day you will call me and tell me a variation on this tale, and I will calmly overnight you a box full of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers.)  She'd climbed up onto the piano bench (since the furniture was still in the middle of the room) and plucked a permanent marker from the top of the counter. There were black squiggles on the fireplace mantel, the sliding glass doors, a platter, the oak kitchen chairs, three teaspoons, the doorknob to the pantry, and a smudge on her upper lip.

My gasp of horror was met with her patented, nose-wrinkling grin.  I swear she smiles that particular smile only when she sees  the veins in my temples start to bulge.  She definitely got the "Latin" charm from my dad, which is a good thing, since with that new Sharpie fetish, it's kind of like living with Tiny Zorro.  Except W's instead of Z's.  All she's missing is the mask and cape.

Ooh, I think I just figured out her Halloween costume!  Trust me, a Sharpie-wielding toddler is plenty scary. I even have a pink silk sleep mask that she can borrow =)

Happy Mommy Monday...you know what to do ;)

Now I Ain't Sayin' She A Gold Digger...

Seph is a pretty fastidious person, as children go.  She especially hates it when her hands get dirty.  After  petting her beloved Burmese kitty, she'll immediately come over to me, whimpering for Mama to get the brown cat hair off her palms.  She routinely picks small crumbs off the carpet and helpfully hands them to me to dispose of, so when she held out to me something that looked like a green sesame seed, I automatically accepted it.

I think I've reached some sort of Mommy milestone.  It wasn't a seed. It was a booger.

Oh, you think that's funny, do you?  It's snot.