Parrish went to Atlanta this past weekend to take the fellowship exam for the ADA (here's hoping he passed...yeah right, I'm sure he aced it, as usual). The munchkin and I stayed super busy while he was gone. First, we had parent observation at Andalusia Ballet during her Thursday class. She is so good. I cried every time she did a new skill. I have issues, obviously. She's just so darn cute and listens so well. I guess I'm just super proud and realizing that my baby is not a baby anymore, and will never be one again! She was also very proud of herself which really tickles me.
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| Listening to Shelly. |
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| Ballet walks. |
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| Warm ups. |
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| She calls this a basket. |
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| Plie means to bend. |
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| Waiting her turn. |
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| Back bend! |
That night my friend Suzanne and I headed to Orange Beach to the Miranda Lambert concert. This was a birthday gift that was canceled for July, so I was bound and determined to go, even without Parrish, and JJ saved the day and kept Sylvie so we could make the trip. After a long and windy drive (I have NEVER been good with navigation and I normally sleep during road trips), we made it to the Wharf, enjoyed a yummy dinner and "Bubble" cocktail at Villagio and found our excellent seats. What we thought started out as kind of a tired show ended up being amazing. Pistol Annie's came out (I didn't think they'd be there...surprised me and I cried), Miranda wore a bracelet Janna gave her (I cried again), Miranda cried during a song (too much estrogen flying through the air), and to top it all off, there was an 18-year-old girl celebrating her birthday at the show. In her hospital bed. Wearing a mask. Has cancer. Could it get any sadder? Miranda sang "Happy Birthday." You guessed it...I cried. I think Suzanne cried some too, so I don't feel so bad. After a harrowing experience in the darks of south Alabama to get home, I consider it a great way to spend a Thursday night. Good friend, good food, good music, good to get home alive!
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| Me & Suzanne. |
Friday morning we headed to Dr. E's for flu mist and a consultation with the man himself. Sylvie gazed so lovingly into his eyes as we discussed her "issues." I'm pretty sure she hypnotized him with her baby blues because he declared her a normal three-year-old. Aargh, she's a little Jedi. But I guess not eating or sleeping is just par for the course during this stage.
This week was our high school homecoming. The festivities were in full swing all week, with TP-ed trees. Sylvie's comment that summed that up: "Toilet paper is for bottoms, not for gardens. That's a no-no." Love this goody-goody. Then she asked when it was our turn. Not so fast...that'll happen in another 12-13 years, hopefully. We did go to the parade and the game that night. Man, does she love some football games, thanks to Daddy. Mainly the majorettes, cheerleaders and the bulldog, but still, she is great company at any sporting event.
The next day we drove to Montgomery to shop. And shop. And shop some more. And my little trooper didn't blink an eye. No typical toddler meltdowns. I mean, I'm pretty sure we visited every shop at East Chase and it was like nothing to her. I love my child. She gets me better than anyone!
Want to hear another crying story? Sylvie can now pronounce the letter "L." No more baby talk. Seriously, no one warned me about this. I really preferred "buttafwy" to butterfly.
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| Funny face. |
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| Watching Dora. |
We ended the weekend on a pretty bad note. We had a lazy afternoon planned with Sylvie off to Papa's and me to an AJWC project. As is our way here at the King house, the plan veered off track when Sylvie tripped over the cat (I really can't stand that cat) and catapulted her head into the edge of our brick steps. Oh the blood, oh the screaming, oh the blood. Thankfully Papa was here to help (I for real almost puked and passed out). After clean up, juice, rocking and some old school Lambchop, Dr. Tara was able to tape her head back together. She's fine...I'm not. I am so vain and cannot get over her having a scar on her perfect forehead (or head fore as she calls it). One day we may have to do a two-for-one at the plastic surgeon...boobs for me and scar revision for her. Trauma. Everyone says it could be worse. I know that but it still hurts my heart to see the evils of the world so plainly on my angel's face. Stupid cat.
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| Damage done. |
After that episode, the munchkin acted like nothing had happened. I, of course, stayed with the theme of the week and cried when Parrish got home while describing the incident. Yes, that's right, he wasn't even home for the ordeal, but he got the pathetic after show. Geez.
We celebrated Parrish's 32nd birthday last night. He said the gifts I got him were functional and practical. True story. Could we get more old and pathetic? Maybe I should've given him the cardboard color-it-yourself shuttle I saw at CVS.
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| Celebrating with a flat apple pie. You know you're old when you don't get a cake anymore. |
One funny to end this sad, sad post: I was getting Sylvie to say all kinds of "L" words. "Say butterfly! Say lollipop! Say please!" I said. Sweet Porter chimes in, "Say toilet!" Gotta love little boys.
God Bless,
Katie
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