Weekend With The Kiddo

It's 7 o'clock; do you know where your kid is?

Mine (Zosia) is down on the couch, snuggling with her mama (D-Jo) and watching Madagascar for the eighty-seventh time. She's properly exhausted after a trip to the YMCA to play in the pool while I got my ass kicked by a beginners' Pilates class.

That was just the last event in what turned out to be quite a weekend for her. It stated a bit early (6:30, which is about 45 minutes earlier than normal) when she walked into our room and announced that she wanted to snuggle with us. After a half-hour of snuggling which was much nicer in theory than in execution (she's a little wiggly) we came downstairs and she and D-Jo took a shower and we got ready to go to the market.

Our market trips end up being pretty epic these days; we used to be able to just buckle her in and walk over, walk through, buy what we needed to buy, and head home. That was before she became, you know, her own person. Now she wants to help push the stroller instead of riding in it, turning a 10-minute walk into a 20-minute one. We now get breakfast there, usually at Cafe George where the owners fawn over her a bit. By the time breakfast is done she's usually read to be buckled in, but this week she was still go-go-going so we put her to work sherpaing vegetables into our basket. After that she was pretty worn out and consented to ride in the stroller for the duration.

We got home and called the lady who cuts her hair to see if she could fit Zo in that day; she could, but at 12:30. Right in the middle of nap time. Zip-zam, into the car, drop D-Jo off at the spa, over to the haircut place for a quick cut and (as a special treat) to get her nails done. You should see the shade of orange she chose. Unsurprisingly she fell asleep in the car and was easily transferred to bed for her nap.

The rest of the weekend was sort of a blur: walk to the playground, walk home from the playground so she could use the potty, walk to the laundromat where D-Jo was camped out (remodeling has left us momentarily washer- and dryer-less), walk home, set the table, help "cook," dinner, play play play, no bath tonight, into bed.

After a three-wakeup night (two more than usual), she was back in our room early, giving us the impetus to get to the grocery store at a reasonable hour. Then it was home, play play play, lunch, nap, decorate the Christmas tree, the aforementioned trip to the Y, and back home for some brief downtime.

I hear Sasha Baron Cohen singing "I like to move it move it," which means Madagascar is over, and it's time to head downstairs for a little dancing before dinner. After dinner will be bedtime for her and a struggle to stay awake for the Survivor finale for me and the wife.

Move it!