Moving Day

As Moving Day Approaches

Packing boxes to move is hard. Packing boxes to move while a toddler is running around is just stupid. I pack a box, she unpacks it. I get out a new box, she climbs into it. I sort through the crystal vases, she picks one up and breaks it. I label the box, she rips off the labels (because, hey! free sticker!)

Two days left in our apartment. The little one bedroom apartment that we've lived in for the past 8 years. We were newly weds when we moved in, Kyle was still in acting school and I was a youth worker in Surrey. We dreamt of our future together, wondering what would come. I look back through the memories and am happy to have been here in this place at this time. And now we move on. New memories to be made.

Feet

Esmé was "helping" me bake when she dumped the baking powder all over the ground as well as the chair she was standing on. I had a moment of frustration and began to clean it up when I noticed the tiny feet. Amazing how quickly the frustration can melt away.

Hard at Work

Nunnery Application In Progress

Esmé likes to pretend to read and pretend to say letters when she sees them on signs or in books. She says letters in random order but when I ask her, she can tell me what some letters are, like A, B, and M. (We were working on C but she has trouble saying the "s" sound and M stands for moon which gets her really excited, so A, B, M it is.)

Today she was looking at the computer keys and among her babbling started saying the letters, "B... O... Y." Then she repeated it over and over, "B...O...Y, B...O...Y."

Noooo! This is too soon! I can't take it!

N..O, N..O, N..O!

Latest Obsession

Esmé found my old glasses and decided they are the coolest thing. I popped the lenses out and now she wears them all the time. She puts them on first thing in the morning, wears them while she's playing or eating or when we go out, and even wears them to bed.

We figure it's good training for when she inherits her parents' bad eyesight and has to wear them for real.

Toddler Penitentiary

I finally made the decision that maybe I should have more than one pair of decent jeans. I am, after all, a grown-up and ripped jeans don't really go with the whole grown-up look. (Although they probably do go with the tired mom look.) So I packed Esmé into the car and we made the trek over to Metrotown to get lost in the gigantic maze of stores.

Esmé sat patiently in her stroller, watching the crowds, being cute for the sales ladies, and making faces into the mirrors. Pretty much just minding her own business. Or so I thought.

Once I had had enough of the mall (which was very quickly because I loath shopping) we made our way toward the car. It wasn't until I had put her in the car seat and started to fold up the stroller that I saw the evidence.

A tank top. Army green. Size medium. Neatly tucked into the seat of the stroller. A shirt I have never seen before.

She's starting young folks, and she knows her stuff. Surveying the clothes, deciding which table is low enough for her to reach and make a quick grab. Choosing an item that won't set off the alarms as we leave the store. Batting her big blue eyes at the sales ladies to solidify her innocence. And tucking the evidence away and out of sight. It all makes sense now.

And then here is where I become the accomplice.

I stand there in the parking lot weighing my options. Our shopping experience has left us both grouchy. Esmé, in addition to being mentally exhausted from carrying out her elaborate burglary, is now hungry and tired and cranky. She's already buckled in to her car seat. I look at the tank top lying there. I think about the store it came from. Where is that damn store anyway? I'd have to wander around that monster of a mall all over again? My morals give way to fatigue. I don't care anymore. We're going home.

When we get home I have a talk with Esmé, "Honey, next time you see a shirt you like and think you want it, why don't you check the tag and make sure it's Mama's size first."

Please don't tell anyone.