A Mini-Outing

Baby Boy has been sick since Sunday. He had no appetite so it wasn't an issue that we had no food in the house...until about an hour ago when he announced he was finally starving.

If he wanted Champagne and chocolate chips, he would be all set, but I am not about to share my secret stash of 5:30 treats. So it was either give him a mug of Perrier Jouet or head to Trader Joe's.

Luckily, we made it without him throwing up in the car AND there was even one of the kid-sized carts available. Much to BB's chagrin, they are always being used when we go so I grabbed the red metal distraction and, like a superhero, presented it to my sick lamb.

Interest in the mini-cart feigned when we were as far from the entrance as possible. Keeping in mind this thing is about two-feet high, guess who got to push it for the rest of the trip IN HEELS? Guess whose back is killing her? Guess who is SO breaking into the Secret Stash a tad early today?

The Gift

A dolphin appeared, like a gray miracle. It sat in the school hall next to a giant bag of forgotten clothes destined for donation.

Before I could stop him, Baby Boy saw the stuffed mammal and quickly snagged it as his own. Not having the heart to tell him that he wasn't the rightful owner, I told him to stop rubbing it on his mouth until it could have a very hot bath with disinfectant.

The bearer of such gifts: The Lost and Found.

I wish this scraggly toy would again become "lost" and I hope the kiddo that dropped it on the playground did it on purpose. If not, know dear child, Flipper now has a good home, despite the fact that he got vomited on last night by the cat.

The Basketball Diaries, Week 2

Last week I shared Baby Boy's first experience with team sports: http://sexynaptime.blogspot.com/2012/01/lil-ballers.html

Today was his second.

After my fashion faux pas of last time, I knew better. I came prepared in my finest sports gear i.e. black yoga garb covered in dog hair and hiking boots. Take that white velour track suit lady!

This week, the kids were much more confident in their ability to get away with shenanigans. "Walk" is not a recognizable word in the vocabulary of 4-year olds. They zoomed around the Coach, who screamed, "No running!! Just walk! Stop running!" He looked embarrassingly to the parents for help, who avoided eye contact. (What else are we paying him $50 for?)

The one girl in the class was decked out in head-to-toe pink. Her mother was apparently using this as an excuse to complete her "well-rounded" portfolio for Miss Little Sunshine. She cornered the girl in a well-lit corner of the gym with a basketball forcing her to pose in various "sporty" positions. I stopped gawking after she pulled out the lip gloss.

"NOW," yelled Coach. "We are going to play a game called Sharks and Guppies! Your parents, the weak little guppies, are going to swim by and you, the HUNGRY sharks, have to hit them with basketballs. That means you ATE them!"

The evil gleam that appeared in the eyes of 11-tots was scary to even the biggest Dad. This was my chance to escape into the bathroom and reapply my own lipgloss. After a calculated 6-minutes, I opened the door. Baby Boy was waiting for me with a wicked grin and a ball.

As it ricocheted off my chin, I heard him say, "Don't worry Mama, you are still handsome."

Lil' Ballers

Moms that say they never want their kids involved in team sports that have the potential to grow into weekends driving to Newark and Worchester for travel team tournaments have never had a 3 1/2 year old during a New England January.

It isn't a rumor that the sun sets a 3:20pm. Do the math.

So Baby Boy started Lil' Ballers Basketball last night.

I should have known it was a bad fit when I joked, "I hope no Kardashians will be here searching for future husbands." And no one reacted.

The second tip was that all the parents were decked out in gym suits and white sneakers that matched those on their children...(I guess Payless has a Family Plan?)...while I was in skinny jeans and Uggs. I never read the fine print where it stated this was a "program that allows children AND their parents to learn--or relearn!--the FUNdamentals of basketball!"

I thought I was getting 45-minutes to read and catch up on FB.

And it shouldn't be called "basketball." It should be "floor ball." Dribbling isn't a skill most people learn until they are 12. So after one failed attempt, the kids (my son) figured out he could whip some ass by kicking his ball down the court, much to the chagrin of the parents that seriously thought "lil' ballers" was code for "NBA training event."

After it was over, I asked Baby Boy if he had fun "playing hoops."

"WAIT!!," he started to cry. "There were supposed to be Hula Hoops here? All they did was make us play soccer!"

I can't wait for next week...

NO, Thank You!

I have been attempting to get Baby Boy to write, nay scribble, upon some Thank You cards for his plethora of Christmas gifts. It was easier to potty train him.

He loves to draw, so it is my fault for putting the Big Scary THANK YOU CARD label on it. He won't even go near the stamps and crayons I set up for him. Rather, he very cautiously walks in a 10-foot loop around the table eyeing the supplies as if they are snakes ready to go for his neck.

This afternoon found me holding colored pencils in my left hand in an attempt to mimic the pressure and intensity of a 3 1/2-year old's scribbles.

He got close enough to watch my lame attempt.

"I want you to remember this," I said. "As the only time I will ever pretend I am you in order to get something crossed off my to-do list. I will not fill out your college applications or take any driver's test for you."

He crawled up on my lap to inspect my forgeries.

Then he sighed in disappointment.

"Is that the best you can do?" he squinted.

And there it is, Tiger Mom coming back to bite me in the ass.

Post Holiday Memory

I asked Baby Boy this morning, "When your friends ask you what you got for Christmas, what are you going to tell them?"

He stared at me blankly.

"What was your favorite thing?" I pressed?

"Uhhhhh, Daddy made me eggs."

"You asked me for a rocket ship every hour for two months and you can't even remember to say that??" I squeaked.

"When's my birthday again?" he asked.

Next year he is getting socks and a comb.