Siege of Elmo
/Of course we all balk when the "Tickle Me Elmo" stampedes occur at Wal-Marts hither and yon every Christmas. Breaking down doors and wrestling each other to the ground over the want of a stuffed Elmo doll. Those crazy muthahs! Seriously. Take a xanax and come back to earth, you overparenting, consumerist, maniacal crazypants! But these days I find myself backpedaling. Baby Girl's got a thing for that looney red monster with the spaghetti arms and the distended belly. And he's starting to grow on me a bit, too.
So much, in fact, that I can no longer open a magazine without Baby Girl interrupting my sustained silent reading with the constant interrogative, "Where's Elco? See Elco!" So I put down my magazine and we go find the one with the ubiquitous Elmo ads.
And this computer at which I sit to type this? Oh forget about it when Baby Girl is awake and in my general vicinity. "Elco? See Elco!" Oh cursed be YouTube, that boundless source of Elmo videos, ever at the ready with another one we haven't yet viewed. Conspiracy against mothers who blog, that's what that is.
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I'm sorry I don't have any pics of the Siege of Elmo. I do, however, have a picture of the hottest apron on the planet that I HAPPEN TO OWN which my ubertalented friend Aliya MADE FOR ME!! And you can have your own, too! Check out her etsy shop. Her work is brilliant!
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.
