4 month marker

Four months marked the time in which Baby Girl ceased observing the nightly witching hour from 7-9 p.m. "Okay, you bumbling parents," said she, "You seem to have suffered enough. I will decline your bribes of hot pink Vespas, but will concede to this early evening siesta of which you speak so highly." Imagine the ecstasy that Loverpants and I enjoyed as newbie parents. Watching the sleeping cherub doze while we ate macaroni dinner that had not taken on the consistency of something you would buy in the $.25 vending machine at KMart, but which was still PIPING HOT! In a queer twist of fate, Little Man, who has, up until now, slept in intervals of 5 and 6 hours at night, has passed the 4 month mark and has decreed that he will now wake up every 2-3 hours with a voracious hunger and a diaper that feels like a frat boy's wifebeater after a day of sand volleyball in the sun. This has resulted in his mother being so beatdown that even the magic of Mary Kay cosmetics cannot touch these puffy undereye bags full of soot and ash. Seriously.

But who am I, this blithe, whiny parent? I'm only a combined total of 33 months deep into the throes of parenthood. What about in twelve years when my kids bring home friends that ask why our house is so small, and what it's like to have a Chinese dad. What about when my kids give me their essays to proofread and I write whole new essays in the margin because I am my father's daughter? And then the alliance of Little Man/Baby Girl will inevitably join forces with Lovey Loverpants -- who will still look like he is in undergrad when both of our children are taking driver's ed -- and the triumvirate will spend whole weekends doing awesome things that I am not invited to do, because I have to take the mini-van for a tune-up and probably re-write their essays on Great British Imperialism for which they will resent me, wholeheartedly.

Yeah, so anyway, did I tell you that while my children are still portable and not full of vitriol toward me, we went to an awesome farm with splendid pumpkins and playgrounds and possibly CIDER DONUTS???

WWJBD

Part of redirecting Baby Girl from mistaking her brother's head as a Nerf ball is a little game called "Justin Beiber." We play this game at least a couple times a day.

Now pay close attention, lest you miss the stratego of this highly amusing sport.

Place baby in swing or some seat in which he is reclined.

Peer in at his face, and with a slightly droning tone of voice, ask him, TATUM, DO YOU LIKE...JUSTIN BIEBER?

A small pair of edible cheeks will concave into the most adorable dimple cheekset ever.

JUSTIN BIEBER? DO YOU LIKE JUSTIN BIEBER, TATER?

Oh the laughter, the full-belly, dimpled-out chortling that will ensue.

YOU LIKE....JUSTIN BIEBER, DON'T YOU, TATE!

I don't know any of Justin Bieber's songs, I could barely pick him out of a line-up. But I know someone that just likes the sound of his name....

*** The other night, it was just Little Man, Baby Girl and I eating a highly nutritious dinner of pasta and Weight Watchers Giant Latte bars at the kitchen table. Baby Girl said she likes cutting shapes and putting them on her magic wand. "I believe you," I said.

"But do you believe JUSTIN BIEBER?" said she.

I love having inside jokes with 2 year-olds. They are the best.

Lady Day

We got to the theater 5 minutes after the show had started. It was dark. Baby Girl isn't exceptionally afraid of the dark. She's much more afraid when cartoon characters crash their skateboards than she is of the dark. We were there to see "Toy Story 3" which we'd already seen before. But who can get enough of Woody, Buzz, Slinky and Barbie for that matter? I had popped popcorn to smuggle in. This theater had an ice cream parlor in it.

We had left Little Man at home with Daddy-o. Girls Rule and Boys Drool type deal. She was going to get to sit on my lap and we'd whisper to each other that we liked Mrs. Potatohead's violet eyeshadow and yellow earrings. All of the tension over having to share me with a sibling would dissolve into thin, dark, movie theater air.

All of this is to say that I was going for Mother of the Year, or at least membership in the Mother of the Month club.

Until.

I couldn't tell you what.

Only that I accidentally bumped Baby Girl's leg on a chair when we were being seated.

TORRENTIAL TEARS. OVER THE TEARS IN A BARREL. FEMA WOULD FEAR THE DAM BREAKING ON THESE TEARS.

We sit down. It's dark. The Pixar short is playing.

I WANNNNNA GOO HOOOOOOME. NANA! DADDY! I WANT DAAADDYYYYYYYY!!!

I quiet her. Stuff some popcorn in her mouth. She'll be into it once she sees the "Toy Story" trademark.

I WANT GEORGE! I WANNA GO HOME!

We march back out to the car to get Curious George. Why would I not bring George into the movie theatre? Why would George not want to meet Woody? Duh, Mama K.

We use the loo.

We return to our other seats.

There are deep breaths. There is talk about how Andy is leaving for college and how Woody and Buzz need to get back before Andy leaves for college.

I WANNA GO HOME.

Somewhere from the back of the theatre, the voice of someone who wants to rightfully watch the movie for which he paid his hard-earned ten moneys.

SO GO HOME!

Fifteen minutes later...

We do.

We drive home.

But not before we stopped for a pizza moon.

Which is best eaten with 3D glasses on.