FAIL

Baby Girl has a new cue to follow lately. When I say, "We're going to go-go," she repeats GO-GO! and knows it's time to pack up and head out the back door. Perhaps we'll go by stroller or by car. Perhaps we'll bring a diaper bag or risk it and just bring our keys. But it is likely we will have to put on our sunscreen with a recommended spf factor of about 820, at least for me, fair-skinned poster child of the American Skin Cancer Society. The problem is, I keep having this near-fatal lapse in memory and I leave that dang bottle of sunscreen within her reach. Three times last week, I heard the familiar light slapping of skin and rushed to find Baby Girl slathering on that sunscreen, legs covered in a light yellow cream. Like she was at a picnic and buttering up the ears of corn. I only say it happened three times last week because it happened thrice with the sunscreen. The fourth time it was butt cream. And you heard it hear first, folks: Butt Cream on Baby's Head = Fun Times in the Getting Out.

She's a hot mess...

in a fancy dress.