long days

On the way to school, Lucy helped Tessa learn how to talk.

L: "Burp."
T: "Bup!"
L: "Burrrp."
T: "Bup!"
L: "No, Burrrrrrrrp."
T: "Bup!"

And so on, all the way to school. Burp is Tessa's favorite word, after poop (pup!) and Daddy (dadddddddyyyy!) They are all kind of in the same word family, I guess.

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While Lucy was at school and Tessa was with the babysitter, I took the opportunity to get some hair ripped out of my face. I helped myself to some of the numbing cream Lucy's doctor wrote a prescription for before her last blood draw, but it didn't seem to do much. No wonder Lucy enjoyed that experience so much.

I told the wax lady I wanted my eyebrows and lip done. She moved in closer for a better look. "Don't you want to do the chin too?" she asked. "There are many long hairs there."

No, I do not want to wax my chin. But thank you so much for the information about my goat-like facial hair.

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When I picked Lucy up from school, her aide told me that Lucy's eye was kind of messy, so she tried to help her wash her face. "Lucy, you have an eye booger," Betty told her. "No, Betty," Lucy replied, wiping her eye. "That is not an eye booger. It is called monkey poop."

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I took Lucy and Tessa to Whole Foods in the afternoon. On the way in to the store, we walked by a few full-color posters advertising the various organic free-range wholesome treats available inside. "Da!" Tessa said, pointing to a picture. "No, Tessa," Lucy said. "That is not Daddy. That is a sandwich."

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TJ has been sitting on the kitchen floor for the last 20 minutes, completely occupied and entertained by an empty plastic milk jug. That may be the first non-Lucy hand-me-down toy she has ever owned.

Good thing she's finding some hobbies. Now that Sprout is running commercials, I can't park my kids in front of the TV all afternoon (at least, not without hearing Lucy screaming with delight at the antics of the Charmin Toilet Paper bear.)

We went to our favorite restaurant last night: Chevy's. I know. But they get the margaritas and chips to your table within 10 minutes, they have a balloon animal guy and La Machina, the tortilla machine, TJ can demolish a plate of rice and beans to her heart's content, and no one looks askance at us because half of her food ends up on the floor. And just when Lucy is about to lose it, they deliver her an ice cream cone that buys us another 10 minutes of fajitas and margaritas.

We go every weekend. I have been a regular customer at many places in my life -- coffee carts, bagel shops, bars, clubs -- somehow I never really thought I would be a regular at Chevy's. Still, I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that our weekly trip to the Quesadilla Store, as it is known around here, is the high point of the week for everyone in our family. Ice cream for Lucy, pounds of rice and beans for TJ, and booze for us. Everyone wins.

Most times, it's great. Everyone, even the grumpiest baby on the block (TJ) is usually busy enough eating that there is no time for meltdowns or misbehavior. Last night, things were bad for some reason. It had been a long day -- neighborhood pet parade in the morning, water park in the afternoon, lots of sun for everyone. My margarita had no salt. TJ's food didn't come out with everybody else's dinner, and then it came out hot enough to burn her tongue. She reached for what she thought was a french fry off my plate, but it turned out to be a sizzling fajita onion.

TJ was justifiably pissed off. She was standing up in her high chair, covered in beans, throwing food. Lucy was begging for ice cream, whining about how "treaty" she was (what she says when she wants a treat.) When the ice cream came, the ice cream fell off the cone and landed in her hand and all over her dress.

In short, it was kind of a disaster. It still wasn't that bad, because it is Chevy's and unless you puke up Zima in the bathroom your freshman year of college on the night Zima is released to the public (true story) you can't really embarrass yourself there.

In the middle of the chaos at our table, my husband caught my eye and looked over at a table a few feet away. It was a family having dinner, two parents, a grandmother, and a clearly autistic boy who was probably about 12 years old. The boy was eating in a high chair, because, as his dad said when they were checking in at the hostess booth, he didn't want to spend his whole meal chasing his son around the restaurant. They probably go to Chevy's for most of the same reasons we do, now that I think about it.

My husband looked at me, as TJ was flinging guacamole, and Lucy was covered in ice cream. I don't even know what he was going to say. But I just nodded, and said "I know."

I realized today that I scheduled my annual gyno appt at the same time as my haircut. It took forever to get a hair appointment with someone halfway decent in the same area code. So I called and cancelled my doctor's appointment. My hair is looking mullet-like, so a pelvic exam will have to wait.

Last month, I cancelled my bi-yearly skin cancer checkup with my dermatologist because I had a sunburn.

I feel like one could draw some conclusions about my current level of attention to my health if they were so inclined.