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It's a Staycation

Aaaaaaaaand . . . we are on vacation. Or rather, staycation. Yet another Grandma and Grandpa have come to visit (I told you, the kid has a whole army of grandparents) and we will be spending the rest of the week visiting all sorts of touristy spots around town. There's nothing quite as fun as a vacation where you don't have to spend a bunch of money on travel arrangements.

Since our guests weren't going to hit town until late in the evening, we figured we would kick our staycation off with a nice little walk with the dogs. You know, so that we could walk the insane out of the Bulldog. Meg goes completely nutso anytime someone besides Mr. Husband, Alexis, or me sets foot in our house, so we figured we would drag her around about 2 miles and wear her fat butt out. I'd say the project was a smashing success considering that she has been relatively angelic since the outing.

Also in Operation Sit Still mode is me, myself, and I. Guess what I didn't think about? I totally didn't remember that a two-mile walk through the woods will invariably result in me developing a 32-pound growth on my left hip. That growth has an attitude problem if I try to move her to the right, up to my shoulders, or do anything that does not result in her being exactly where she usually is. All that leaning to balance the 32-pound growth has me engaging in a rather permanent lean. It's so fun, but not quite as fun as being the person who tries to keep the two psychotic dogs on leashes under control. Mr. Husband was the lucky soul who has rope burns from trying to keep the psychotic furballs from running for the hills.

The fabulous news was that there was a lake where we were walking, so I did get a few breaks from my growth. The kid lurves to stare at bodies of water, so she asked to climb off my left hip a few times so she could stand and be Zen with some H2O. Hello, photo op!

As we are enjoying our staycation, there may be a shortage of quality posts. As in, I may not be coherent enough to put words together to form those new-fangled things called sentences, but I'm sure that photos will somehow find their way here. They always do, after all.




It's Time for Heads to Explode

Someone who either doesn't like me very much or who wants to challenge my mental stability has planted the phrase, "What time is it?" into Alexis' brain. I have no idea why the freakity frack a 2-year old needs to know the time, especially when that 2-year old's understanding of the concept is limited to recognizing that "tomorrow" means quit asking until you've slept and "later" means when Daddy walks through the door. Perhaps she has a hot date I don't know about, has invited Dora the Latina Whore over for tea, or needs to be home in time for her programs on the tele. I have no idea.

As we were driving home from a day of shopping and errands, Alexis started in with the time thing.

Alexis: "What time is it, Momma?"
Me: "It's 7:39."
Alexis: "What time is it, Daddy?"
Mr. Husband: "It's 7:39."

Of course neither of us can be trusted to be telling the truth. She ALWAYS asks both.

Alexis: "What time is it, Momma?"
Me: "It's 7:40."
Alexis: "What time is it, Daddy?"
Mr. Husband: "It's 7:40."

Why, yes, she is so spectacular as to ask the question repeatedly.

Alexis: "What time is it, Momma?"
Me (sighing): "It's 7:40, Alexis."
Alexis: "I ask Daddy. Daddy, what time is it?"
Mr. Husband: "It's 7:41."

Of course we are so ridiculous as to actually look at the clock before answering. We could answer, "It's eleventy seventeen 102," and she wouldn't know the difference. But are we smart enough to do that? Of course not.

Alexis: "What time is it, Daddy?"
Mr. Husband: "Alexis, it's still 7:41."
Alexis: "No it not. Mommy, what time is it?"
Me: "It's 7:42, Alexis."
Alexis: "Bad, Daddy!"

Playing us off one another. At the age of two. Fantastic!

Alexis: "What time is it Daddy?"
*Heads explode."

How old does she need to be before I tell her that it's time for her to buy a watch? I don't care if I did hate it when my mom used to say that to me all the time, it's starting to sound like a perfectly good response.