Weak End Report

Here is a weekend in pictures (and words, of course).  

This is what happens when I go to store late on a Friday night.  I have a grocery store specific impulse control problem.  

Grandma bought Marina a 5-foot Dora balloon for her birthday.  First thing Sunday morning, Marina got out of bed, went downstairs and carried it back up with her.  For some reason she decided that a good place to leave Giant Dora was at my bedside.  Imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to see this giant football-shaped head staring at me.

We bought Marina her own box of Legos (yes, I know that it says, 'For Age 6' on the box, but Marina is superior to all 3-5-year-olds).  They make Legos specifically for girls now.  The box is pink and the blocks have several pastel colors among them.  While we wouldn't usually have a problem buying gender-neutral Legos for our girl, we had to make a distinction from Eli's blocks.  These kids like a good fight.  

Naturally they included a female Lego person in the collection.  Take a look at the picture they put on the label (she's the one brushing her horse's face).  Killer hair, dude.

Side shot for the full mullet-effect.  

Your sweater is lovely.  

 Marina also got a box of princess faux-Barbies.  Before long our kitchen looked like a party for fallen Miss America's pageant stars who had been up partying all night.  There were shoes, crowns and gowns strewn all over.

No blog entry is complete without a picture of one of my useless cats.  Here is Lorenzo, intimidating our guests with his laser vision while we ate dinner and cowered.  

He changed location for a more direct laser shot into the back of my head.  

Lastly, I detected a pattern in my home this weekend.  As my stress levels go up, so does the amount of times my kids run by me and slap my buttocks.  Here's an example:  on Saturday, I was rushing around getting ready for Marina's birthday party and everything was going wrong.  As I was trying to find room in the freezer, frozen meats and processed foods were raining down on my exposed feet.  Every time I would put something back, another bomb would drop.  I was feeling violently irate when Eli ran by at a full sprint and smacked my butt.  I felt like a cartoon character with smoke shooting out of my ears.  I calmly asked him not to do it again.  As the words were still coming out of my mouth, Marina came by and walloped me.  This is certainly not an isolated event.  To think, once upon a time, we used to encourage a toddler-sized Eli to smack people in the butt.  

In the words of Jim Carrey, "I'm getting what I deserve, I'm reaping what I sow."  

This can actually be applied to any of my current parenting woes.  I had to pause my typing just now to ask Marina not to lick my leg.  

Weekend.  Weak End (just like my over-slapped buttocks).