Have your cake and eat it too

“We have an erotic bakery in Dallas.”

“How do you know?”

“Where do you think I got that chotch cake?”

Was the previous snippet of conversation worth 6 hours of sitting in the car, getting only 5 hours of sleep last night, and now looking toward an afternoon of sleepiness and Sophie? You bet.

My brother and his wife, who live in Texas, have been in the northern part of the state for about a week. Utah’s a big state though, so I haven’t been able to see him. Yesterday, my folks, Katy, Janz and I all drove 3 hours to meet Jon and Shannon for dinner—then turned around and drove home.

Whenever Jon and I get together, we become about 10 years old mentally, and end up laughing our asses off about farts, boogars, and poop. This trip was no exception. Dinner was ok—as far as food and conversation (the chocolate soufflé cake a la mode was better than ok) but a bit stilted. Families grow such weird dynamics over the years. But—back in the car (my parents Durango—otherwise known as the “Republican Cruiser) Katy and I started giggling about her job inventorying the supplies in the nursing classes, which lead to one thing, then another, and finally Jon and Shannon exchanging the words above. I laughed until my stomach ached and the tears were streaming down my face. Not just because it was funny—but because of the mixed company and their various responses to the phrase, “chotch cake.”

Soph stayed home with E. I thought of bringing her, but am SO glad I didn’t because she was in full on BRAT mode yesterday. The crying and whining and hitting and fit throwing surpassed normal levels by about a mile. I contribute her brattiness to lack of sleep, (that girl WON’T stay in her bed) sibling envy, (she LOVES Janz but hates to part with attention) and Monday going-back-to-school blues. Her new most annoying phrase is, “You’re wrong,” which she tells me about 80 times a day. We’ll be reading and I’ll say, “This is a stegosaurus,” and she’ll say, “No Mom. You’re wrong. That’s a spik-o-saurus.” Or we’ll be watching TV and the damn FLOAM commercial will come and she’ll beg for some and I’ll say, “Baby. Floam is just too messy,” and she’ll say, “No Mom. You’re wrong. Floam is great and clean!”

The weekend was ok—other than the freaking ICE AGE that appears to have settled over these here parts. Folks—we got almost 2 feet of snow. FEET! Now that’s just plain wrong. I hurt my back shoveling snow and so the house kind of went to shit—but it probably would have gone to shit even if I hadn’t.

Done.

Today’s best thing about being a mom:

Soph LOVES to put lotion on me. This morning we had a quick bath. After we got out, I just laid on the bed and she lotioned my back and legs and arms for me. I wonder how soon I can get her enrolled in massage school.

Today’s worst thing about being a mom:

Defending my make-up from the forces of Sophie!