Rock-a-Bye-Baby

Bedtime used to be a pretty minimal affair.
Supper. Bath time. Bottle. Brush Teeth. Stories. Upstairs. 3 Songs. Bed.

The End.  Tah Dah.

Now?  Bedtime is Epic.

1. Supper usually served to a child who is either shoving food into her mouth double-fisted or attempting to swivel her head 180 degrees while screaming, "Nooooooooooooo."  Apparently, soup is a finger food.  Who knew?

2. Bathtime is still pretty good.  Provided you turn on the bubble machine and you have the water at just the right temperature.  If it deviates more than a half degree from the ideal, bathtime can degenerate quickly into something that makes even the most seasoned parent wonder why the hell they're putting themselves through this.

3. Milk is always good.  Well...99.9% of the time it is good but mostly this is a moment of calm in an otherwise crazy night.

4. Brushing teeth?  It is a crap shoot.  Some nights it is giggles and fun (Brynn's tooth brush plays "Party in my Tummy" from Yo Gabba Gabba) and other nights I'm sure someone from DCFS is going to bust into the house to take Brynn away from us.  Yes, she screams THAT loud.

5. Stories.  Sometimes we have the time and energy and sometimes...we don't.  Usually that depends on how 4 went.

6. Upstairs.  Surprisingly, this is the one part - other than her bottle - that Brynn NEVER fights.

7. 3 Songs...or 4 songs...or 5 songs...or...  Scott always ducks out after 3 but I'm often left dealing with a kid who opens her big blues as wide as they'll go and who lisps out "I loo you" just before asking "mo song?"  I usually end up singing myself out long before she runs out of cute but eventually I disengage, give her a kiss, tuck her in, and close the door while she still hopefully asks for "Mo Song." 

Then, I shuffle downstairs, fall onto the couch next to Scott and together we fall into a TV induced coma.

How Romaaaaaantic. 

The Queen of Lower West Banjoville

We did it!  We finally did it.  We bought a house.

And not just a house.

It is THE house.  A dream house.  My dream house...eeeexcept for the fact that it isn't in Vancouver.  Or Burnaby.  Or even Port Moody.
Nope.  Officially, it is in Coquitlam (the next burb out past Port Moody) but it is close enough to Port Moody that I'm going to call it "Coquoody".  I know that's stupid but it makes me feel marginally better about being out in the boonies.

Instead of the King of Kensington, I'm now the Queen of Lower West Banjoville.  (yes, "Banjoville" is actually a legit term.  Google it, I dare you.  Or better yet, follow my handydandy link to the urban dictionary for the definition.

Feast your eyes on my new digs.

Wait a minute...this isn't MY house.  This is a picture of Will Smith's living room from Architectural Digest.  What a dump!  He can now only dream of owning my new pad.  Bwahahahahahaa
Let us all now take a moment to feel sorry for the Fresh Prince of somewhere other than Lower West Banjoville.

The Louboutin Mommy or A Paperbag Princess?

I am most definitely NOT a Louboutin mommy.  (as much as I would dearly love to be)


I do not drive up to my daycare to drop off my little bundle of joy in my Mercedes SUV.

I do not slide off my Gucci sunglasses, tossing them carelessly on the passenger seat so I can see what I'm doing.

I do not unbuckled a child named "Buffy/Oprah/Ashleigh Devereaux the third" and sashay her into daycare with my flashy five inch Louboutins wearing a delightfully swingy Halston dress.





  

I do not.

Nope. 

This mommy drives up in her 2003 Mazda wearing pants I hope don't give me too much of a muffin top, topped by an oh so delightful tshirt procured from Costco.  When I sashay, it is more of a schlep since my Pumas have holes in both soles.

Ah yes, I know.  Ooh la la!  Je suis superbe, n'est pas?

Oh, and just in case you were wondering...yes, this post was inspired by a Louboutin mommy I saw at my daycare this morning. 

Wadda bitch!