This weekend I took CootieGirl and CootieBoy to the local ice cream parlor for a scoop of ice cream. It was early evening but deceptively close to their bedtime, but I thought it would be a nice treat for them.

We snagged a booth and I dropped CootieBoy into a booster seat and I quickly ordered the ice cream (a scoop each of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry to share all around). The kids behaved perfectly while we were there – CootieGirl continuously sampled all three flavors, CootieBoy managed to make only a minor mess. We were the picture of family harmony – a picture that many a shop patron paused to smile upon as we sat there enjoying each other’s company.

When all ice cream had been finished I got the kids hosed down and de-stickified and paid the bill. I then dropped money into CootieGirl’s hands and told her to give our waitress her tip and say thank you. She did as much and as we approached the front door she started fussing.

“I want ice cream!” she wailed, tears brimming in her eyes.

“CootieGirl, we just HAD ice cream. Remember? C’mon – let’s go home and see Daddy.”

“NO, I WANT ICE CREAM!” she wailed more loudly, her knees buckling when I tried to take her hand and escort her outside.

A couple people sitting at the counter turned to watch the spectacle. CootieBoy happily sat in my arms, pulling on my hair and grabbing at my glasses.

“CootieGirl,” I said softly, completely aware of a dozen pairs of eyes on me at that very moment. “We need to go – you’ve already HAD the ice cream, now it’s time to go home and see Daddy.”

“NO!” With that she threw herself to the ground right in front of the door so that no one could leave and no one could enter.

I looked around helpless and threw out the obligatory, “She’s NEVER like this…” to whoever would listen.

Someone stepped over CootieGirl’s prone body and opened the door. “CootieGirl, you are in the way,” I said, taking her hand and attempting to lift her limp body to a standing position while still not spilling the contents of my purse or my son, still having a grand old time on my hip. She screamed at that point, “IIIICCCCEEEEEE CCCRRREEEAMMMMM!!!!” and not caring anymore I dragged her out of the store so that people could finally come and go as they pleased.

I let go of her hand and said, “Okay, you can stay here, but you won’t get ice cream. But CootieBoy and I are going home.” I turned and began walking to the car which was parked about 30 feet from the ice cream shop, and with a quick turn of my head I could see her slowly following me, albeit very reluctantly and with much kvetching.

Eventually she caught up and I got her into the car as well as CootieBoy. She continued to sniffle during the car ride home, and once parked in the driveway I said, “You owe me an apology, CootieGirl. You were NOT very nice to me back there in the store.”

She glared at me and stayed mute.

“I’m very sad, CootieGirl. You’ve made me very sad and I don’t think I want to talk to you right now.” I got out of the car and unstrapped CootieBoy from his seat, then without a word I went around to CootieGirl’s side of the car and helped her out. She attempted to talk to me about flowers and I told her I was waiting for an apology and she clammed up.

She never did apologize, but we eventually made up in our own way. But I’ve learned my lesson: No more ventures out in public so close to bedtime. I don’t need the curious stares from bystanders who think I’m one of “those” mothers who can’t control their toddlers but yet swear they are “never like that”.

Not sure if Marmie sewed this tea dress for O, but here she is in all her tea splendor.

Yesterday afternoon I had the hiccups. I had loudly hiccuped a few times when CootieGirl turned to me. “You have the hiccups, Mama?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, I do.” I answered.

She replied, “I usually get the hiccups in the morning.”

Boy, do I need a haircut. Add that to today’s Things To Do List.

Dancing with CootieBoy.

Sharing Cereal (Part 1) – see http://www.scratchmittens.com for part 2

If I hear that question 100x a day, I hear it 1000x. It’s CootieGirl favorite question in all the world.

“Mama, what are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning out the closet.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“Because it needs to be cleaned.”

*two seconds elapse*

“Mama, what are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning out the closet.”
“Why are you doing that?”
“Because it needs to be cleaned.”

*maybe two seconds elapse*

“Mama -”
“CootieGirl, what did I tell you I was doing just a moment ago?”
“I don’t know…what are you doing?”

You know how Madonna, the dance diva from Detroit, eventually took on a British accent long before she actually married Guy Ritchie and moved to England? Well, my daughter, diva of Bloomfield New Jersey, has some weird accent going on that cracks me up, because I don’t know where she gets it.

It’s not a Russian accent, which would make sense since most of her daycare providers are Russian and with heavy accents. And most of the kids in daycare speak Russian, so it’s not them. It’s not from church because I’ve never heard anyone at church with this accent. So it has come from nowhere and I WILL get it on video for your pleasure.

When she makes the “oo” sound in certain words (as in “Cooper pooped in the yard”), the “oo” sound comes out funny and I can’t even think of a word that has the sound. It’s almost like she’s throwing an “eh” or “uh” sound in with the “oo” sound. We’ll deliberately ask her question that involved Cooper pooping so that we can hear it. Last night we were out on the back deck and she wanted to play in the yard. I said, “Be careful, we haven’t cleaned up after Cooper lately.” She turned and said, “The poop? Cooper’s? Clean it up! Clean up the poop!” And it caused me to dissolve into laughter.

I’ll try and record it tonight so you can hear it.