Sunshine

Last weekend, we spent four glorious, sunshiny days in St. George with our friends the Gardners. We enjoyed lots of treats.

And we spent hours on the playground just outside our condo.

The biggest moment of the trip was when the punk finally stopped crying and clinging, and realized the kiddie pool wasn't so scary after all. This took hours of therapy, but he was eventually able to blow bubbles and throw a ball around like the happy kid we expected him to be in the pool.

He continued the fun and exciting game of showing off his knowledge of body parts. No, not those parts. The parts on his face. "Nose."

My man had the brilliant idea of visiting Snow Canyon and the sand dunes (petrified, and not).

The punks had a wonderful time in the expansive sandbox that Mother Nature provided just for them.

The punk had so much fun hanging out with his lady friends A & D. He asked for A every morning, including the morning after we got home. He just loved having two other punks to be with, and it made me look forward to the day that he'll have his own little bro or sis. (No, this is not an announcement.)

The weather was lovely and hot, and our friends were the perfect kind of travel companions. It was a wonderful way to welcome spring into our lives. And it's been snowing continuously in the three days we've been home.

Punk After Nap

Don't worry, little man. I feel the same way when I first wake up. That's why, if by some miracle, I do get to take a nap, I keep a piece of dark chocolate on the night stand. It really helps to keep the gnashing of teeth to a minimum when it's time to get up and face the world.

Oh, look. It snowed again. Do you like what the punk has done to his hair? We call it Nappy Chic.

Okay, I'll give you whatever you want. Just stop with the adorable face. I can't take it!

Staring Contest

I will now share with you a true story about my wonderful brother David, pictured here on the left.

Yesterday, David saved me from an afternoon of boredom by agreeing to meet the punk and me for lunch. We met at Gandolfos for some giant sandwiches. As we were enjoying our turkey, bacon, avacado & conversation, David got a curious look on his face. He was staring pointedly across the restaurant as he said, "Don't look now, but there is an entire table of people over there, staring at me."

He said that there were four people seated together, three guys and a girl, and all four of them were looking directly at David! He continued to look them in the eye while telling me that it was the weirdest thing he had experienced in a restaurant. He was having a staring contest with four complete strangers, a battle of wills. He was considering walking over there to ask what their deal was. He said it wasn't a hostile stare, but a continuous stare nonetheless. And he continued to meet their gaze.

Being a girl who isn't afraid of a little confrontation, I encouraged David to go over there and confront the foursome. (I probably would have tried to talk him out of it if he were actually inclined to do it, but don't tell anyone.) After a few minutes, he said they had stopped looking at him and that I could turn around and see who they were. I turned and looked at the table where four nice, normal, non-crazy individuals sat with their sandwiches. Then I looked back at David, and turned my view past him. And smiled.

"David," I said, "Could it be possible that they were looking at the TV directly behind your head?"

"Oh." He turned to see the TV behind him. "That would make more sense."

Let's Go Fly A Kite

My pal Brit and her two daughters and one niece joined the punk and me at the park near our house for some good old fashioned March kite flying.

When the rugrats tired of watching their guardians try to keep the kites in the air, we fell back on plan B: the playground.

The punk loves to try to keep up with his three older girlfriends. Usually, when he and I are at the park together, I hold his hand down the small slides and I go with him down the big slide. But this time, he asked me not to embarrass him in front of his lovely ladies.

I've wondered when he would be ready to go down the big slide without his mama. Now I have my answer. He is ready now. I just had to have the courage to let go.

8/2=3

Last Saturday, I completed an 8 mile run. Today, since my man was going to be away for most of the day, I decided to cut my run in half and take the punk out in the jogging stroller (because, really, it was that or no run at all because it's Saturday and treadmills are banned on Saturdays). I shall now explain the difference between an 8 mile run and a 3 mile run. (Yes, half of 8 is 3. I majored in math; don't question me on this.) Please enjoy the accompanying photos of today's run while you read this dissertation.

8: The first mile sucks.

3: The first mile sucks.

8: The runner is very aware of the state of her bowels and the location of the nearest "facility."

3: Eh, not a big deal.

8: When the runner is halfway done, she is 4 freaking miles from home, with no car. Just running shoes and an ipod.

3: When the runner is halfway done, she should probably add another half mile on her way out so she will have completed 4 miles at the end of her run, which sounds a lot better than 3. Three is wussy. But no. Either the runner's upper body has become weaker or the punk has become heavier since our joint run last fall (perhaps it's his 10 lbs. of cold weather gear), and 3 miles will have to do.

8: At the end of the run, the runner must a) visit the facilities, b) drink 7 gallons of water to ward off the migraine demons, d) stretch well, and c) eat immediately. If she does not do all these things, she will feel like she's been hit by a truck about 60 minutes after finishing the run.

3: At the end of the run, the runner can do whatever she wants. Stretching and drinking water are recommended, but not life or death.

8: Even if the runner has completed all the necessary steps above, she will not have the energy to do much else on her Saturday, and will probably have to take an afternoon nap, and then not be able to fall asleep later that night, until she finally resigns herself to counting backwards, slowly, from 500.

3: Even if the runner didn't complete the suggested steps above, she will feel great for the rest of her Saturday because she burned some calories and released some endorphins.

He's Ba-aaaack

Despite my open abhorrence for him, Jack keeps showing up at the window. Here he is, asking if the punk can come out and play.

When I denied play time due to the punk's afternoon nap, he showed up outside the little guy's bedroom window. (How did he jump that high?)

Then, this morning, there he was again, at the kitchen window.

It seems he has something to say.

Hit the road, Jack!

Wascawy Wabbit

There are many things I do not allow in my house or yard. This long list includes doilies, fake flowers in vases, toll painted scarecrows, blow-up Christmas decorations, and...

... plastic garden animals. We found this "darling" treasure in a wild patch of vinca in a neglected corner in our yard, and the punk quickly adopted it as his bosom buddy.

He likes to carry it around, set it on the ground, knock it over, give it hugs, and say "hop, hop, hop" while making jumping motions with his hands. He doesn't say "mama," but he picked up "hop, hop, hop" within minutes. He has recently started saying please ("eeezzzzz") and thank you ("duck-oo"), but does not say "mama." At least he's polite, even while he attempts to break his mother's heart by refusing to utter her name.

But I digress. This woodland creature is not something I intend to keep for very long. If the punk weren't having so much fun with it, I would have picked it up with a long garden fork and buried it in the outside garbage with the diapers and pine needles immediately.

Don't you think it's creepy? I can feel it staring at me wherever I go.

Thanks to my man, I'm going to have nightmares tonight.