Doodle

In a fit of spontaneity on Saturday night, P and I ordered “The Bourne Ultimatum” on Pay-Per-View. Yes, it’s true that we had already paid money to see this movie in the theater and yes, it’s also true it’s the only movie we’ve seen in the past twelve months that doesn’t feature animated bees or vegetables with no arms. But we are creatures of habit and we know what we like.

What if we paid $4.99 for a movie that didn’t feature the awesomeness that is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne and were completely disappointed? It’s a risk that neither one of us was willing to take. And it paid off because it was totally even better the second time around.

Anyway, as we watched the movie last night I found myself wondering what it would be like to live life as a CIA secret operative and undergo torture at the hands of people who want information from you. What would it be like to live life in constant danger and feel like you’re not safe anywhere you turn?

I’ll tell you what it would be like, a trip to the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon.

With a four-year-old.

In a store filled with stuffed Easter bunnies, Disney Princess Easter baskets, and Marshmallow Peeps shaped like the devil.

And my list was long, my friends. LONG.

I mean what screams MUST GO TO THE HEB more than serving up hairy sour cream for your family?

Caroline and I hit the store, grabbed a race car cart, and begin to make our way up and down the crowded aisles. I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. People were grabbing for avocadoes as if homemade guacamole was the only vestige of hope for survival.

And as for the half and half? Let’s just say a lesser woman would have turned back, but not me. I forged ahead and grabbed that carton of half and half because, as God is my witness, my family will not go without homemade Baked French Toast for Easter.

Because what says praise God for the resurrection of my Savior like some delicious, french toast covered in syrupy goodness?

I mean other than the plastic eggs filled with gummy Lifesavers.

Oh, and of course hollow chocolate bunnies.

We made our way halfway through the store and were only sideswiped three or four times. Some poor lady ran over my heel, but since she was a fellow member of the race car cart brigade, I let it go because there but for the grace of God, and some serious navigational dexterity, go I.

Just when I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and the Magic Eraser product (for my lavender toilet) at the end of the aisle, Caroline informed me she needed to go to the bathroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised because in her citywide tour of various public restrooms, she has found none that please her like those of the HEB variety.

I hauled the race car cart across the store to get to the restroom. Caroline particularly enjoys the smell of the HEB restroom because, clearly, her olfactory senses are whacked. But as I stood in the stall with her I noticed something I have never noticed in my previous 107 trips to the HEB bathroom.

There was a framed picture of some flowers hanging over the toilet. And it was screwed into the wall so that no one could steal it.

Well sure.

Because I know when I contemplate a lucrative future as an art thief, I always picture myself at the Louvre, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the bathroom at HEB.

In what is turning out to be a theme for the weekend, I have another piece of advice.

If your child decides it would be a great idea to color her bottom in purple marker while you’re busy fixing a delicious, homemade breakfast for your family or, you know, checking email, then it would be a good idea to wipe off superfluous marker before they go to the bathroom.

Otherwise, your white toilet seat will never be the same.

Maybe if I buy some lavender towels it will appear that it’s all part of an elaborate redecorating scheme.

But probably not.

And really the more pressing issue is what makes a person decide to color their bottom purple in the first place?

In further exciting developments at the house of Big Mama, guess who’s discovered the Photo Booth feature of the Mac?

Oh yes ma’am. Now that she knows there is a way for her to continually capture her own image, there’s no stopping her.

The Apple Corporation has created a monster.

Although, technically, I helped because I showed her how it works in an attempt one morning to make her forget about wanting to fingerpaint.

She hasn’t even figured out all the ways that it can distort your face and turn things all kinds of different colors. We’ll save that for Spring Break next week.

Something tells me we’re going to be in need of an activity or fourteen.

Rock on.

On Saturday, P took Caroline to the ranch for the day to give me time to recover from my scratchy, sore throat and to wallow in my agony without someone constantly shoving Go Fish cards in my face and demanding I play with them. He can’t help himself, he just loves Go Fish.

Anyway, they left around noon and didn’t get home until around 9:00 p.m.

As soon as they walked in the door, I scooped Caroline up and dropped her straight in the bathtub. By the time I scrubbed the mosquito repellant off her, got her in pajamas, and combed her hair, it was around 9:30. I decided to go ahead and put her in our bed to save myself the midnight trip to her room, especially since we were about to lose an hour.

I tucked her in, kissed her goodnight and she said, “Mama, are you going to bed right now?”

“No, not yet. I’m staying up for awhile.”

“How come you get to stay up late?”

“Because I’m the mama.”

“So, does Daddy get to stay up the latest since he’s the boss?”

“Yes, Daddy stays up the latest.”

“Mama, I don’t think Daddy is really the boss. I think you’re the real boss.”

“Shhh. Let’s keep that between us.”

Yesterday I was looking through some old pictures and found one of P and me in front of our house right after we bought it ten years ago. On a side note, I am wearing overalls in the picture. Why? Why would I do that?

Anyway, I showed the picture to Caroline and said, “Look here’s our house when Mama and Daddy first bought it. Doesn’t it look different?”

She said, “Where am I?”

“You weren’t born yet.”

“Was I in your tummy?”

“No, this was before you were even in my tummy.”

“Oh, I must have still been searching for you.”

photo by Hollimon Photography

And since she’s found me, life has never been the same.

It’s been better.

This morning P let me sleep in a little and he got up with Caroline. I believe it was around 6:30 a.m., but it’s just too painful to think about.

Around 8:30, Caroline came running in the room yelling, “WAKE UP, MAMA! WAKE UP! IT’S TIME FOR CHURCH! WAKE UP!”, which is such a relaxing way to start the day, especially when I realized I had about twenty minutes to get both of us dressed and hope that the deep wrinkle that appears in my forehead every night would have time to disappear before we walked through the church doors. (It didn’t)

However, Caroline had already taken it upon herself to get dressed. This is what she had on.

While I admire her attempt to mix patterns, I’m not sure this is really working for her. Although the unbrushed hair topped by a baseball cap is a nice touch.

Here she is after she added a winter hat to fend off the 80 degree chill and I told her that as much as I loved what she had going on here, we were going to make a few changes.

Needless to say, she was not happy with my decision. I wonder how many more times I’ll see this look over the years?

Don’t answer that.

She let me know that I had “RUINED” her day, but I had an ace up my sleeve in the form of a cute new outfit from CWDKids that she’s been dying to wear.

So the four of us headed out to church. P, Caroline, me and my wrinkle.

There will be no photos of the wrinkle.

When I picked her up from Sunday School, they handed me what seemed to be a paper grocery bag and explained they had talked about Joseph’s coat of many colors.

That’s Caroline in Joseph’s coat of many colors, which is so weird because I never realized they had an HEB.

The irony is that I didn’t let her wear her original outfit to church because I was afraid she looked like a bag lady.

If only I had known.