Saturday, May 31, 2008
Spelling Bee Giggles
My response would have been wayyyyy different, but that's probably why this kid is the spelling bee champ and I'm not. His maturity level well surpasses mine. I would have gladly used it in a sentence. "What kind of numbnut chooses 'Numnah' as a spelling word!?!?" I would have used it in the plural version too, because, let's face it, saying "numbnuts" makes me giggle. Like seven year old making his armpit fart. Bwahahahaha.
BTW, This was just yesterday, at the national spelling bee.
Friday, May 30, 2008
hips don't lie
Shakira got something right with that song. I go to the gym, on an almost daily basis. There are a few moments where I don't go for a spell, and then when I'm shopping in the store and the cottage cheese gives a shout out to my thighs, the breaks over and back to the gym I go. I like to do the elliptical and circuit training, and people watch. I don't burn as many calories people watching, but it passes the time.
I work out, because it keeps me healthy and toned, and gives me the body I want. Awww shitaki, I lied. I work out because I am dying to be anything like what I was 10 years ago. Pre babies. Pre saggy boobs and jiggly thighs. They don't tell you that having a child will warp your body in a way that will never be the same. You can be 115 pounds again.. which I was... in 9th grade. But sexy jeans? ha....they don't tell you that your hip bones will widen like a wide mouthed piranha and never return. So you are stuck, working feverishly, trying to wear anything other than elastic waist bands.
So right now, my thighs are burning, and cussing. Every step I take, the left one utters "dannnnng, the right one says "Sweet effin' grapes.." and my back 40, well it's just screaming. Can't make out what it's sayin', but it's pissed. My southern hemisphere is protesting and I swear, my legs better bear some resemblence to Halle Berry's real soon. Her pre-baby legs. Because she will quickly learn, mother nature doesn't play favorites. Her hips won't lie either.
I work out, because it keeps me healthy and toned, and gives me the body I want. Awww shitaki, I lied. I work out because I am dying to be anything like what I was 10 years ago. Pre babies. Pre saggy boobs and jiggly thighs. They don't tell you that having a child will warp your body in a way that will never be the same. You can be 115 pounds again.. which I was... in 9th grade. But sexy jeans? ha....they don't tell you that your hip bones will widen like a wide mouthed piranha and never return. So you are stuck, working feverishly, trying to wear anything other than elastic waist bands.
So right now, my thighs are burning, and cussing. Every step I take, the left one utters "dannnnng, the right one says "Sweet effin' grapes.." and my back 40, well it's just screaming. Can't make out what it's sayin', but it's pissed. My southern hemisphere is protesting and I swear, my legs better bear some resemblence to Halle Berry's real soon. Her pre-baby legs. Because she will quickly learn, mother nature doesn't play favorites. Her hips won't lie either.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Etsy rocks my knee high socks
I *heart* Etsy. (www.etsy.com) It is full of super creative peeps who come up with some of the cutest stuff, ever.
Like aprons. I am forever obsessed with aprons. I don't know if I was June Cleaver in a previous life...I might have been, sans pearls of course, since the only person I know who owns pearls is my grandma and Barbara Bush. And when a feminine hygeine product company names a line of tampons "pearls" it goes from graceful to gutter, real quick. Back to the aprons. Love this and the country bumpkin in me likes this.
When I am not drooling over aprons, I am thinking about how much fun this would be for a fairy photo shoot. If I had a forest and pixie dust.
This reminds me I need to make one of these for someone's 2nd birthday photos. Better get on that.
I want one of these, preferably with my kids names. But if I had to change their names, I will, they are not too attached, it's not like they answer to the ones they have.
Is this for real? Designer poo bag cover?
Then there is this and all it does is reminds me of "you and me baby ain't nuthin but mammals," and if you have ever seen that video, you know what I'm talking about.
Like aprons. I am forever obsessed with aprons. I don't know if I was June Cleaver in a previous life...I might have been, sans pearls of course, since the only person I know who owns pearls is my grandma and Barbara Bush. And when a feminine hygeine product company names a line of tampons "pearls" it goes from graceful to gutter, real quick. Back to the aprons. Love this and the country bumpkin in me likes this.
When I am not drooling over aprons, I am thinking about how much fun this would be for a fairy photo shoot. If I had a forest and pixie dust.
This reminds me I need to make one of these for someone's 2nd birthday photos. Better get on that.
I want one of these, preferably with my kids names. But if I had to change their names, I will, they are not too attached, it's not like they answer to the ones they have.
Is this for real? Designer poo bag cover?
Then there is this and all it does is reminds me of "you and me baby ain't nuthin but mammals," and if you have ever seen that video, you know what I'm talking about.
Monday, May 26, 2008
memorial day
"If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say you love them, though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have left and what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own.
And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.”
– Major Michael O’Donnell, January 1, 1970, Dak To, Vietnam
Be not ashamed to say you love them, though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have left and what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own.
And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.”
– Major Michael O’Donnell, January 1, 1970, Dak To, Vietnam
Friday, May 23, 2008
Vacation comes to an end.
ewwww, it's been a minute. I have been enjoying the sunshine and vacation. We even had the kids play hooky when family came in town. Hopefully they won't want to debate about it when they are 16 and want to skip school for something like a broken fingernail. I don't want to think that I raised some lawbreakers with their school track record.
Hubby and I met several years ago, and we lived in different states. Being promised dreams come true, happily ever after and even a free back rub or two, I went willingly. (I am easily bought.) We then had 3 kids, and moved back to my home state. It was hard for us to spend just small portions of our lives with family, and since 50% of Hubby's family doesn't even know the definition of family, that was a driving force in our choice to be here with my side of the fam. If you followed that, amazing. I'm not going to quiz you on the family tree or anything.
The hardest part is the goodbye. Oldielocks opens floodgates and uncontrollably sobs when she knows people are going to leave. It was so hard the other day, when she had to say goodbye to her uncle. Hardest for her, because she had been around mainly him, since birth. She sobbed and sobbed, all the way until she had to go into school.
After that, we met up with Hubby, so the other 2 could say goodbye. They did fine, and we went on our way. I look back in the mirror and see Middle's little lip tremble.
"Awww, are you sad, Middle?" I asked, which obviously knowing the answer
She held her wrinkled chin firm, big blue eyes brimming with tears, and squeaks out, "no".
"It's okay to be sad. Goodbyes are mostly sad, but you get to think about all the fun you had." Here I am trying to be about as helpful as a stick in the mud, but I'm trying.
I'm looking at her in the rear view mirror, and she turns her face to me, with silent tears, and says:
"I'm not sad, but my heart is... just a little." and pinches her index and thumb together to show me "a little."
That pretty much broke my heart, and made me second guess any and all decisions I have ever made for my children. Life would be perfect if the people that love my children, could be around all the time, and they never had to say goodbye, and then, their hearts would never be sad, not even a little.
Hubby and I met several years ago, and we lived in different states. Being promised dreams come true, happily ever after and even a free back rub or two, I went willingly. (I am easily bought.) We then had 3 kids, and moved back to my home state. It was hard for us to spend just small portions of our lives with family, and since 50% of Hubby's family doesn't even know the definition of family, that was a driving force in our choice to be here with my side of the fam. If you followed that, amazing. I'm not going to quiz you on the family tree or anything.
The hardest part is the goodbye. Oldielocks opens floodgates and uncontrollably sobs when she knows people are going to leave. It was so hard the other day, when she had to say goodbye to her uncle. Hardest for her, because she had been around mainly him, since birth. She sobbed and sobbed, all the way until she had to go into school.
After that, we met up with Hubby, so the other 2 could say goodbye. They did fine, and we went on our way. I look back in the mirror and see Middle's little lip tremble.
"Awww, are you sad, Middle?" I asked, which obviously knowing the answer
She held her wrinkled chin firm, big blue eyes brimming with tears, and squeaks out, "no".
"It's okay to be sad. Goodbyes are mostly sad, but you get to think about all the fun you had." Here I am trying to be about as helpful as a stick in the mud, but I'm trying.
I'm looking at her in the rear view mirror, and she turns her face to me, with silent tears, and says:
"I'm not sad, but my heart is... just a little." and pinches her index and thumb together to show me "a little."
That pretty much broke my heart, and made me second guess any and all decisions I have ever made for my children. Life would be perfect if the people that love my children, could be around all the time, and they never had to say goodbye, and then, their hearts would never be sad, not even a little.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
18 is now my least favorite number
I know I have mentioned my thoughts on this family once or twice before, and they have done it again. Quiverlet #18 is on it's way. They announced the pregnancy on the Today show, and "surprised the kids." Yeah, surprised as in "which one of us lucky kids gets delegated the new J-spawn." It might come down to drawing straws, they are that excited.
Duggar Mom is over 40, has more miles on her uterus that most airlines have on their planes, and yet she is still sneezing them out. By now, there has got to be a condo hi-rise built in there, complete with sauna and gym equipment. I'm sure the uterus decor looks much like a pair of pants I owned when I was 8, patches, rips, loose threads. Number 18 is busy looking for room on the wall of her cervix to write it's name, and jumping up and down in the football sized space it has. Doesn't she know that when you re-use the same hair band over and over, it loses it's elasticity? 15 or so big heads dropping out of that mack truck sized chute, makes me want to cross my legs and tie them around my neck. Cows can't keep up with the milk supply and demand she has. So when your boobs and uterus hit the floor at the same time, you pee when you speak, and there are no J names left except for Jalapeno and Jerky, and your stomach resembles a deflated hot air balloon, call it quits already. What more signs are you looking for?
The grossest thing to me was reading this part:
“They didn’t know. My girls watch the calendar like a hawk. We just found out on Monday night.”
link: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24537885>1=43001
UM EWWWWWWWWWWWWW! I already think it's weird that they wear the same clothes, only play 2 instruments, schedule time for attention from their mom (which is about 1-2 months apart), raise younger siblings and eat massive amounts of tater tot casserole, but their mom has a big ol calendar that charts her menstrual cycle that the kids watch?? It's one thing if you want your va jay jay to rival the size of a basketball hoop, but to involve the kids in the going on's of the monthly bloodbath, that's just disturbing. Do the girls have to write theirs down too? "Everyone, please help Jezebel with dinner. She has cramps because it's day 3 of her monthly period. Say it after me: 'P-E-R-I-O-D." Gag.
There is going to be a outcast, who will run away to Alabama and own a dog, have no kids, be a vegan, playing the saxophone, buying clothes at Target and write a tell all account of the daily fun back at the Quiverful compound. We all know I will buy that book.
Number 18 is on its way. Oh joy.
Duggar Mom is over 40, has more miles on her uterus that most airlines have on their planes, and yet she is still sneezing them out. By now, there has got to be a condo hi-rise built in there, complete with sauna and gym equipment. I'm sure the uterus decor looks much like a pair of pants I owned when I was 8, patches, rips, loose threads. Number 18 is busy looking for room on the wall of her cervix to write it's name, and jumping up and down in the football sized space it has. Doesn't she know that when you re-use the same hair band over and over, it loses it's elasticity? 15 or so big heads dropping out of that mack truck sized chute, makes me want to cross my legs and tie them around my neck. Cows can't keep up with the milk supply and demand she has. So when your boobs and uterus hit the floor at the same time, you pee when you speak, and there are no J names left except for Jalapeno and Jerky, and your stomach resembles a deflated hot air balloon, call it quits already. What more signs are you looking for?
The grossest thing to me was reading this part:
“They didn’t know. My girls watch the calendar like a hawk. We just found out on Monday night.”
link: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24537885>1=43001
UM EWWWWWWWWWWWWW! I already think it's weird that they wear the same clothes, only play 2 instruments, schedule time for attention from their mom (which is about 1-2 months apart), raise younger siblings and eat massive amounts of tater tot casserole, but their mom has a big ol calendar that charts her menstrual cycle that the kids watch?? It's one thing if you want your va jay jay to rival the size of a basketball hoop, but to involve the kids in the going on's of the monthly bloodbath, that's just disturbing. Do the girls have to write theirs down too? "Everyone, please help Jezebel with dinner. She has cramps because it's day 3 of her monthly period. Say it after me: 'P-E-R-I-O-D." Gag.
There is going to be a outcast, who will run away to Alabama and own a dog, have no kids, be a vegan, playing the saxophone, buying clothes at Target and write a tell all account of the daily fun back at the Quiverful compound. We all know I will buy that book.
Number 18 is on its way. Oh joy.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Mother's Day
Let's get real.
I love it when you meet the perfectly dressed mom, whose shoes match her purse and her make-up is impeccable. She is more than likely pushing a $500 dollar stroller, smiling down at picture perfect Jean-Pierre in his Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater. Her nails are not chipped, her diamond wedding ring sparkles and she is overheard making a play date on Friday for little Jean-Pierre and his friends at the local park, right before his sign language lessons and garden planting class. She drives the luxury SUV that has been waxed and polished, and smells like new car. She is stopping for lunch at the local Italian restaurant, but has to leave early to put the little tyke to bed before the sitter comes so she and her husband can go to the art gallery hop. And at the end of her conversation she exclaims "Geesh, parenting is hard."
I think that the first clue of hard parenting would be when your uterus stretches to the point of no return, your skin betrays you and has a permanent road map marking the path your child stretched, and the only way out for the little "sweet pea", is the way it came in, or how about someone with a really sharp knife is going to fillet your innards, for exit B. Sounds pretty tough.
And then "Precious" will proceed to steal your sleep, your brain, your things, your food, and create the most gruesome scene out of any horror flick... in it's pants. And just when you think you have seen it all, you will smell it all, and wonder exactly when, you signed up for this. And you will think... this is rough.
"Darling" will start to speak and then hit. Bring home germs and get sick. You will doubt any "mother's instinct" you think you have. Should I call the Doctor? Is that normal? Will "lovey" be smart enough? Am I teaching the right things? "Will someone call CPS when my kids tells them that Mommy fed them pizza for breakfast? Is pizza for breakfast okay? Yeah, this gig is harder than you thought.
So when you meet perfect mommy, and hear the exclamation that "parenting is hard...." you want to sit her down, with you in your running shoes that you bought on sale at Kohl's, sporting the faded black capris with the stretched out black shirt that has a string hanging from back. She's not going to ask where you got your hair done at, because you will have to be honest and tell her, "by my 7 year old. She picked out the bright purple rubber band." She won't ask you what smell that is that you are wearing, and you won't answer "Aunt Jemima....syrup." as you try to hide the sticky stain on your shirt where the 1 year old wiped her face. She won't notice your ring, spun around and dingy from washing and cleaning. She might take notice of the one year old in the Gymboree....with Gap socks. Or the one year old with marker on it's tongue.
Your car will be parked next to her, complete with straw wrappers and kindergarten papers. Stories from the library and 8 sweatshirts, all that have been trampled on. Making it to the car wash never really gets done, because you have kids, and after the wrestling match in the grocery store, you are exhausted. The lessons that you have your kids signed up for are "Natural consequences". And "how to listen to anyone."
Truth is, parenting is hard. No doubt about it. There have been days that I wanted to quit, collect unemployment or at least get some vacation pay. But they don't let on that the hardest, is when you have to send them all, out into this big world someday, and they will wave, and keep going. That is when it gets hard.
I love it when you meet the perfectly dressed mom, whose shoes match her purse and her make-up is impeccable. She is more than likely pushing a $500 dollar stroller, smiling down at picture perfect Jean-Pierre in his Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater. Her nails are not chipped, her diamond wedding ring sparkles and she is overheard making a play date on Friday for little Jean-Pierre and his friends at the local park, right before his sign language lessons and garden planting class. She drives the luxury SUV that has been waxed and polished, and smells like new car. She is stopping for lunch at the local Italian restaurant, but has to leave early to put the little tyke to bed before the sitter comes so she and her husband can go to the art gallery hop. And at the end of her conversation she exclaims "Geesh, parenting is hard."
I think that the first clue of hard parenting would be when your uterus stretches to the point of no return, your skin betrays you and has a permanent road map marking the path your child stretched, and the only way out for the little "sweet pea", is the way it came in, or how about someone with a really sharp knife is going to fillet your innards, for exit B. Sounds pretty tough.
And then "Precious" will proceed to steal your sleep, your brain, your things, your food, and create the most gruesome scene out of any horror flick... in it's pants. And just when you think you have seen it all, you will smell it all, and wonder exactly when, you signed up for this. And you will think... this is rough.
"Darling" will start to speak and then hit. Bring home germs and get sick. You will doubt any "mother's instinct" you think you have. Should I call the Doctor? Is that normal? Will "lovey" be smart enough? Am I teaching the right things? "Will someone call CPS when my kids tells them that Mommy fed them pizza for breakfast? Is pizza for breakfast okay? Yeah, this gig is harder than you thought.
So when you meet perfect mommy, and hear the exclamation that "parenting is hard...." you want to sit her down, with you in your running shoes that you bought on sale at Kohl's, sporting the faded black capris with the stretched out black shirt that has a string hanging from back. She's not going to ask where you got your hair done at, because you will have to be honest and tell her, "by my 7 year old. She picked out the bright purple rubber band." She won't ask you what smell that is that you are wearing, and you won't answer "Aunt Jemima....syrup." as you try to hide the sticky stain on your shirt where the 1 year old wiped her face. She won't notice your ring, spun around and dingy from washing and cleaning. She might take notice of the one year old in the Gymboree....with Gap socks. Or the one year old with marker on it's tongue.
Your car will be parked next to her, complete with straw wrappers and kindergarten papers. Stories from the library and 8 sweatshirts, all that have been trampled on. Making it to the car wash never really gets done, because you have kids, and after the wrestling match in the grocery store, you are exhausted. The lessons that you have your kids signed up for are "Natural consequences". And "how to listen to anyone."
Truth is, parenting is hard. No doubt about it. There have been days that I wanted to quit, collect unemployment or at least get some vacation pay. But they don't let on that the hardest, is when you have to send them all, out into this big world someday, and they will wave, and keep going. That is when it gets hard.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Kids say the weirdest things
I love it when my kids say something off the wall. Not like"Go Bleep Bleep a cow, you Bleep Bleep." Nothing foul like that. More like when the mispronounce words or use the incorrect word, or are totally not on the same planet of thought.
Middle comes skipping into my room the other day, and a floral scent followed her. I sniff and trying to figure out if she washed her hands, or sprayed body spray, or if Avalon just robbed a Bath and Body Works truck, I kind of wanted to know.
"What's that smell?" I ask.
(insert very weird look here)
"what smell?"
"On you. What is that smell from?" (I am soooo descriptive in my daily conversation, almost flowery)
She looks me dead in the face, very truthfully says
"stinky socks"
and walks away. That kid gets me... every time.
Is it bad that I think the mispronunciations are cute and don't correct them. I mean, sometimes I do, but I love it when my oldest tells me "I am sooo cold I am shimmering!" She is going to go to college, using the word "shimmer" for "shiver".
Or this conversation in the car the other day.
"Mom, the police were at our school today."
"Why, were you bad?" (don't worry, my kids know when I am kidding. i think.)
"No... it's because of the gar-fitti."
"The what?
"The GARFITTI. You know, people painted words on the amphitheater, and then painters came."
"Oh...I see. Honey, it's called GRA-fitti. And it's illegal. If kids want you to sneak out in the night and spray paint your name on a building, you say no. But really, it IS illegal."
"Why do people do GRRAAAfitti?
"Because they think they are cool. And if being cool is doing illegal stuff, then it's not cool, right?"
"ohhhhh, yeah."
Got my parent points for the day.
Middle comes skipping into my room the other day, and a floral scent followed her. I sniff and trying to figure out if she washed her hands, or sprayed body spray, or if Avalon just robbed a Bath and Body Works truck, I kind of wanted to know.
"What's that smell?" I ask.
(insert very weird look here)
"what smell?"
"On you. What is that smell from?" (I am soooo descriptive in my daily conversation, almost flowery)
She looks me dead in the face, very truthfully says
"stinky socks"
and walks away. That kid gets me... every time.
Is it bad that I think the mispronunciations are cute and don't correct them. I mean, sometimes I do, but I love it when my oldest tells me "I am sooo cold I am shimmering!" She is going to go to college, using the word "shimmer" for "shiver".
Or this conversation in the car the other day.
"Mom, the police were at our school today."
"Why, were you bad?" (don't worry, my kids know when I am kidding. i think.)
"No... it's because of the gar-fitti."
"The what?
"The GARFITTI. You know, people painted words on the amphitheater, and then painters came."
"Oh...I see. Honey, it's called GRA-fitti. And it's illegal. If kids want you to sneak out in the night and spray paint your name on a building, you say no. But really, it IS illegal."
"Why do people do GRRAAAfitti?
"Because they think they are cool. And if being cool is doing illegal stuff, then it's not cool, right?"
"ohhhhh, yeah."
Got my parent points for the day.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
The Devil is my Baby Daddy
I tried to set up a meeting on Maury Povich, so we could clear up this paternity business. There is this vicious rumor going around that, indeed, the big, red D himself, is the father of my youngest.
We were in the store, just Middle, Baloney and I. I handed her a box of fruit snacks that we were buying, thinking she would talk to Nemo and stroke the box, and amuse herself. Instead she tries to rip it open. I tell her no, we have to buy it, blah blah, and guess what, she still tries to rip it open. I tear it from her little dimpled fingers and chuck it into the cart. She immediately responds with a howl, after all I have just ruined her day. She frantically starts climbing out of her seat, even though she is strapped in, and tries climbing over the back. After several rounds of pulling her down, trying to cram her legs (that she has locked in the "straight" position) into the seat, I have won. Or at least I thought. I am now a hot sweaty mess, she is yelling "heyyyyyyyyyyy" and "sit down!" at the top of her lungs, and I still have things to get. I am looking at lotion, when I notice a book of stamps flutters to the ground. Then my bank card, and a tampon. The contents of my purse are being flung around, and as I snatch them up, the gremlin in the cart is cackling at the chaos she has created. Yes, I said cackling. I take everything away, assist her in sitting down, again.
I called my husband, after all, the moments in life such as these should be shared, and I am all about sharing. We talk for a minute, and I calmly tell him that he is more than likely NOT Baloney's father. I then whisper, as to let no one overhear, that, the Devil himself, is my baby's daddy. I told him if he doesn't believe me, Maury Povich would love the ratings this would bring.
Somewhere, somehow, my little girl has morphed into this portrait of naughtiness,and I'm not feeling it.
As the conversation progresses into enchanted things such as what's for dinner, etc, Middle whimpers and then yelps. I look over, and I see Middle crouched down and Baloney has a fistful of hair, yanking it and you guessed it, laughing. I help Middle escape from the clutches of Attila the Hun, and we leave, kicking and screaming toddler in tow.
The pigtails on her head resemble little horns... I know longer think that is a coincidence.
We were in the store, just Middle, Baloney and I. I handed her a box of fruit snacks that we were buying, thinking she would talk to Nemo and stroke the box, and amuse herself. Instead she tries to rip it open. I tell her no, we have to buy it, blah blah, and guess what, she still tries to rip it open. I tear it from her little dimpled fingers and chuck it into the cart. She immediately responds with a howl, after all I have just ruined her day. She frantically starts climbing out of her seat, even though she is strapped in, and tries climbing over the back. After several rounds of pulling her down, trying to cram her legs (that she has locked in the "straight" position) into the seat, I have won. Or at least I thought. I am now a hot sweaty mess, she is yelling "heyyyyyyyyyyy" and "sit down!" at the top of her lungs, and I still have things to get. I am looking at lotion, when I notice a book of stamps flutters to the ground. Then my bank card, and a tampon. The contents of my purse are being flung around, and as I snatch them up, the gremlin in the cart is cackling at the chaos she has created. Yes, I said cackling. I take everything away, assist her in sitting down, again.
I called my husband, after all, the moments in life such as these should be shared, and I am all about sharing. We talk for a minute, and I calmly tell him that he is more than likely NOT Baloney's father. I then whisper, as to let no one overhear, that, the Devil himself, is my baby's daddy. I told him if he doesn't believe me, Maury Povich would love the ratings this would bring.
Somewhere, somehow, my little girl has morphed into this portrait of naughtiness,and I'm not feeling it.
As the conversation progresses into enchanted things such as what's for dinner, etc, Middle whimpers and then yelps. I look over, and I see Middle crouched down and Baloney has a fistful of hair, yanking it and you guessed it, laughing. I help Middle escape from the clutches of Attila the Hun, and we leave, kicking and screaming toddler in tow.
The pigtails on her head resemble little horns... I know longer think that is a coincidence.
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