The Happiest Place on Earth

For the past year - at least - I've been telling Q that when he reached 48" we would start to plan a trip to Disneyland.  I figured that I had forever.  Q on the other hand, ever eager to be a *big* boy, would get me to measure him every other week, "I know I've grown Mommy.  I can feel it!" 

Sure enough, he hit 48" and was *legal* to go on all the rides.  Then he was 49" and then 49 1/2"  - just like that.  A promise is a promise is a promise, and so we began to plan our journey to Disneyland.  And when I say "we" I mean "me" because Q couldn't care less about the planning.  He just wants to go.  Me, the planner, researched for hours on the Internet.  I spoke to everyone who has ever been to Disneyland to get the inside scoop.  I planned for September.  Got the *Ok* (in writing) from the ex.  I got the passports. We were good to go.

And then **someone** got engaged.  It's not my story to tell, and so I won't (unless they say I can...)  But I am very, very, very excited, to say the least.  But these **someones** are getting married in October-November or January-February (it's still in the very early planning stages) and I can't take Q out of school twice in the same school year...

But a promise is a promise is a promise.  

I had the money already.  I had been saving up for it for months.  I have a week off in early June.  I was just going to putter around the house and unpack (ugh).  Then I got to thinking...what if we went to Disneyland next week?  All my planning, all my research for September was out the window.  My heart started to beat a little faster.  Here I was, throwing caution to the wind and booking a spur of the moment trip.

We're going to Disneyland in 9 days.

I think I'm going to puke.

I'm a huge home body.  I don't like the anticipation before a trip.  Once I get there, I'm fine...but there are so many what ifs before you go.  I like my own bed, I like familiar things around me.  I'm doing a very adult-ish thing...I'm taking my son on a trip.  Just the two of us.  The last time I went on a vacation that wasn't a road trip to Calgary was when we went to Hawaii four and a half years ago.  Q was two.  I think we deserve it.  

But... 

What if we get lost?

What if we miss our flight?

What if our bed is not very comfortable?

What if it rains the whole week?

What if my phone doesn't work?

What if, what if, what if?  There won't be anyone to bounce ideas off of.  I'll be the only adult.  Eek.  I'm not sure if I'm ready for this. 

But then I take a deep breath. 

And I remember we're going to Disneyland (!!!!)  to have fun.  So I tell Q:

Me:  You know, our only plan while we're away is to have fun, okay?

Q:  Okay.

Pause...

Q:  Well Mommy, that will be easy 'cuz I think it's like, the happiest place on earth!!

Who says advertising doesn't work...

The Peanut

I thought I'd give you a little insight into the life of a peanut goalie on game day.  There's a lot of pressure, just look at how many seats are in those stands.  That could fit a whole lot of people, you know...

Yes, yes, that was two full minutes of nothing.  Poor kid.  He's so darn cute, though.  What follows is a little more action packed...

Paxil Pink

Dude, it's no secret that me and Paxil are close, real close.  I've been an overly anxious person since I can remember and Paxil takes the edge off.  I had to make a decision early on - did I want to be one of those extreme neurotic mothers who ruin their offspring's childhood, or did I want Q to have as *normal* an upbringing as possible, given the fact that I'm a single mom and he gets passed around from mom to dad to babysitter to mom to dad to nana....etc, etc.  And don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm wandering around life in a medicated fog.  It just takes the edge off, just like a glass of wine in the evening.  I have feelings.  I feel...

Knowing that we're going to be in our new home for at least two years (we signed a lease...those things are impossible to break, right???)  I decided to make my bedroom a little oasis for myself.  I was going for shabby chic, but the end result turned out a little different than I had intended.  I'm still in love with it, regardless.

Anyways, take a look at this....

pretty pink pill

Now, look at this...

look, i even made my bed for you (sort of...)

I know, right?  I didn't even do it on purpose.  In fact, it reminded me of strawberry ice cream when I was painting.  Then one day, I looked around and realized my room was Paxil pink.  I'm sleeping inside a cocoon of anti-anxiety bliss.  I think this tops my list of 'Things I'd Rather Have than a Husband!!"  A pink room....no self respecting guy would sleep in this room.  And that's okay by me!

I searched high and low for a vanity.  Unfortunately, I think they've gone out of *style* because I couldn't find anything that a) fit my budget or b) looked anything like I had imagined.  So I made my own.  This was a really cheap alternative, a shelving unit from IKEA for under $50.  The mirror - super cool - lights up so I can see every single blemish and pore and hair on my chin...which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it.  The flowers were a Mother's day present from my momma (I know, how's that for a score, huh?  She buys me pressies on Mother's day...which really, she wouldn't be a mother without me, so it does kind of make sense that she should gift me...)

There are pops of fuchsia everywhere in my room, because I love fuchsia.  This room just sucks all stress from my being the minute I walk into it.  And that's been a God send this week, what with the angry uterus and the ultra-testosterone work environment I find myself in right now (which I cannot go into detail, for fear of actually losing my job...I'm that opinionated on the subject...)

Yes, my room is perfect.  Except for the pile of dirty clothes on the floor.  That really irks me.  I wonder when the maid is doing laundry this week?  She's really slacking on her duties.  Geesh...

The Photo Op

Every time I look at Q, I think he's grown at least an inch - especially if he's been at his dad's for a couple of days.  It's one of those motherhood-y things that I'm totally powerless to change.  He's gonna grow whether I want him to or not.  And realistically, who wants a 6 year old for 20 years straight?  While we might mourn the loss of our babies, everything happens for a reason - kids grow up so their parent's don't go crazy. 

His looks are changing constantly and I'm not the best photographer.  Correction:  my iPhone is not the best camera.  I wanted to capture his youth, his happiness and him.  As a single mom I can't afford those super cool photographers, but I didn't want the Walmart photo shoot, either.  You know the ones I'm talking about...the ones that show up on Ellen in her "Worst Photo's Ever...." segment.

Along came Groupon.  For a mere $49.00, we got a one hour "photo shoot" and 10 pictures of our choice.  Granted, the guys at MAP Group are just starting out, but they were very professional and friendly.  The one guy even carried around my purse and ice cappuccino everywhere we went, even when I insisted it wasn't necessary.  I joked I was going to bring him with me everywhere I went.  The other guy didn't know if he should laugh every time (I mentioned it three times, at least) I told him his one goal for the day was to make me look 30lbs less.  He just kept nodding and saying, "Okay, Okay..."  They gave us the opportunity to capture a few moments in time.  Just to show how fast my lil man is growing...when I made the appointment to get the pictures done, Q had no front teeth.  By the time the big day arrived, he had four very, very large ones...

Anyways, I highly recommend MAP and I highly recommend Groupon.  In fact, there are so many out there, go to One Spout (www.onespout.com), for every single discount you could ever imagine.  You're welcome!!

us in a tree.  a tree we climbed!!

time for a nap - being a model is exhausting

peek-a-boo

my love

Where Have YOU Been?

Have you missed me?  I know I've been absent from the blogging world for practically the whole month of May.  I wish I could say that it's because I've been vacationing in the south of France and the Internet connection there is horrible, but the wine is fabulous!  Or that the weather here in Vancouver has been so balmy, we've spent every waking moment at the beach.

No, no it's raining here.  Except when I'm at work...then it's gorgeous, but then it rains. 

Instead, we've moved into our new home.  This in itself is super wonderful because we don't have that horrible woman down stairs making our lives miserable, and Q can be a normal 6 year old and jump if he so chooses (and he does choose to, often, in fact...) but unpacking has taken up valuable blogging time.  I still can't find my flip flops, though, and the garage is not so much a garage but a storage room for boxes...and we've been living there almost a month.  I have, however found at least one mouse (alive) and a colony of ants in the kitchen, so that's exciting...isn't it?

But I've also been working 6 days a week.  I'm not the type to take overtime.  I'm of the mind that my son is 6 only once, and I'd rather spend that time with him than make $60/hour.  Money is just money, but time goes by sooooooo fast and you can't get it back, ever.  So I always decline the overtime at work.  Unfortunately, two co-workers are off on sick leave, one co-worker is two weeks into the job, one co-worker is fairly *in my opinion* inept, and so that leaves three of us doing the job of the required six.  I'm also junior in seniority, so if everyone else says *no* to over time, I am forced to come in.  And by forced, I don't mean they come and take me at gun point and hand cuff me to my desk.  It's just implied that they would look at me with their hands on their hips and a frown on their face.  Not one to disappoint, I have for the past month been working 6 days per week.  Two more weeks of 6 and then one week off!  But the point is that I am so exhausted.  A girl needs her beauty rest.  Given the opportunity to blog or see my child or sleep, unfortunately lately I've chosen the latter two.

Remember how last month I was dying with strep throat?  Ya, well evidently my immune system needs a bit of a boost because one day I was fine, and the next I was knocked to the ground with this cold that came out of nowhere.  We all know I couldn't call in sick due to the already supervisor shortage, so I had to suffer through a week and a half of dying from the cold virus.  I literally came to work with a roll of toilet paper (Charmin, cuz it's just so darn soft!) in one hand and Advil cold n sinus in the other. 

Okay, so I've been busy.  But I'm back.  There are still boxes in the garage and overtime on Fridays, but I miss you guys.  I do.

Oprah + PMS

...equals one hour of bawling like a baby. 

I haven't watched Oprah in years.  It was more of a late '90's, early 2000 thing to do, in my opinion.  Her show changed in recent years too.  It used to be that she had guests on who were real people with a story to tell, but lately it's become her platform to just talk about whatever was important to her.  And who wants to hear all about one person spouting off ideas and thoughts and....erm....uh....unless you're reading my blog, of course.  Then it's okay...and much appreciated, actually.

There are a few guests from way back that I still remember to this day.  One was an older black woman (I think she was in her 70's) who woke up in her home to some guy trying to rape her.  Well she grabbed his balls in one hand, his penis in the other and pulled them each in different directions.  This guy was begging her to call the cops, he was in so much pain. 

One couple weren't having any sex anymore in their marriage because the husband always came home from work at the end of the day and said, "Oh, baby.  I'm so tired..."  To this day, I use that phrase just like he did...with a low, southern drawl..."Owh, bay-be...Ahm soooo t'rrrrrrrrd."  But not about sex...everything else, though!

Then there was the mother, Erin Kramp, who was dying of breast cancer.  She had a six year old little girl who she wouldn't be able to see grow up.  Instead of wallowing in self pity, rolling up into a ball, and crying for the last six months of her life, she recorded hundreds of hours of tapes for her daughter.  They included advice for life, how to wear make up, what to look for in a husband.  She told her how much she loved her, how she'd be watching over her from heaven, and how she hoped she'd never be forgotten. 

Almost fifteen years later, and that little girl has grown up to be a wonderful woman, with memories of her mother never far from her mind...

http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Erin-Kramps-Legacy-of-Love-Video

I know it's my greatest fear - not being around to see my son grow up, not being there for his graduation or his children.  This story is so, so sad and yet at the same time, it gives a completely new definition to selflessness and love.  It's a story of inspiriation.  It's a reminder that our children are a gift and a treasure.  We have so much to teach them, so much to give them.  Motherhood truly is the greatest gift on earth, now go kiss your kids.

Pass the tissue, please. 

Things I'm Loving

I'm doing really awesome sticking to my budget.  I really, really am.  I'm so proud of myself.  I've saved like, almost uh....well, um.....

...okay, so I'm not doing very well sticking to my budget.  Truth be told, I don't really have a budget.  If I see something I like, I buy it - within reason, of course.  If it's ridiculously expensive (expensive is really a relative term...) or if I don't really need it (yes, I did need that third pair of black sweat pants...this pair has bling!)  I am able to put it down and walk away...but I have to walk away very quickly so I don't change my mind.  Thank God I haven't run screaming back into a store like a mad woman grabbing a coveted item and then buying one in every colour.

Yet.

Anyways, here are a few things that I'm loving and fit the *budget*.  I suggest you all go out and get one of each.

Aren't these the most adorable shoes you've ever seen?  Don't you remember your first pair of jelly shoes when you were 6?  I do, and I feel just as giddy and carefree when I wear these.  Honestly, I wore them out of the store and had to resist the urge to skip down the mall.  The flowers are fabric with little silver grommets in the middle.  Just go here, and you, too, can feel like a child again!  Best part ever?  They're $19.99.  Of course mine are pink, but they also come in black and white (my brother's gf got the white ones.  They are so fabulous with her blue pedi!!)  If you feel like an excuse to go to the mall, they're sold at Spring (or Call It Spring?  I don't know, they keep changing their name.)

I am fighting a losing battle with my face on a daily basis.  Something about it not getting the memo that I am not 14, I'm 34 - and therefore should no longer be getting zits.  In an attempt to combat the *aging* that's lurking around every corner, I was using this fabulously creamy moisturizing foundation.  The coverage was great, but I think it was too moisture-y for me.  Since I've started using Pur Minerals foundation, my skin is looking 100 times better.  Just a few of the benefits - it's a powder, but it's not cakey, it blends so nicely with my skin tone, you use very little, it uses no preservatives (like parabins), it's all natural (minerals, actually!!), it's a foundation and concealer in one, and they don't test on animals.  Is it a miracle?  I think so.  It's just like Bare Minerals, but it's cheaper (cue angelic choir).  Check it out here.

Also in my search/battle for clear, beautiful skin I've actually ditched the pro-activ.  It's horribly drying on my face and I think that's part of the reason why I kept breaking out, my skin kept producing too much oil and then clogged my pores.  I went for a facial once (in my life) and she told me that pro-activ works like a steroid and thins out your skin, so later on you get more wrinkles.  My doctor told me that the makers of pro-activ are marking geniuses, and all you really need to do is go to your local pharmacy and pick up some Benzoyl soap for $14.99 and you're gold.  Just because Jessica Simpson endorses it, they charge the moon and the stars.  Every dermatologist out there is kicking themselves for not thinking of it first. 

This, Clear Advantage, is awesome.  I love the smell.  It's like I give myself a mini facial every morning and every evening.  My best friend sells this stuff, so I know it's good.  Arbonne also does not use any preservatives (you know they're linking that shit to cancer, right?), it's all natural, and it soothes instead of eats away at my skin.  It uses Salicylic acid instead of Benzoyl peroxide.  If you've tried everything else, and nothing works...

...this will.  Or your money back.  Seriously.  You can check out all their products at http://trinar.myarbonne.ca/.  You can even tell her I sent you (don't expect any freebies, though....geez).

So, we have our sandals, we have our glowing skin.  Summer (read: SUN), we are so ready for you.

Rain - take the hint, dude.

Men, Men, Men

I don't know if you've noticed this lately, but there are men everywhere.  And I'm not even exaggerating.  They. Are. Everywhere.

I've been single now for four years (I know, you all just said "We know already!!!  But just bear with me, okay?  I have a point other than all the other points I was making when I told you how long I had been single for...four years...)  I've been living a *nun-like* life for the past two years (and please tell me I don't have to explain what that means...) 

I have been very good. 

My attitude towards men for the past two years has been mostly *ugh*  and *duh* and *hmph*.  I mean, seriously, men just don't get women.  They don't know what we mean when we say we're 'fine'.  They don't listen.  They have difficulty communicating.  They're frustrating.  They think with their penis.  Or they don't think at all.  They're selfish.  They smell.  The list could go on forever and ever, girls.  You probably have your own list of irksome male qualities (if you can even call them that...qualities....)

And the last little while, I have totally come to believe that I'm destined to be single.  Whether it's fate or karma, a punishment or a gift, I will most likely be single for the rest of my life.  And no, I'm not being mellow dramatic.  I've been single for four years, people.  Who's single for four years????  Right.  No one.  I'm at peace with the whole plan.  Of course, I wasn't at first.  But then I kept reminding myself how annoying men were and what a joke it was that we were supposed to find one person in this world and then stick with them for the rest of our lives even if they breathe loud and snore.  

Then I kind of started to scare myself.  Every so often, I remind myself of those ultra-man-hating feminists who would spit poisonous venom at men, if it were at all physically possible for them to do.  So, I tried to tone it down just a tad.  I do hear myself saying things like, "You don't need a man.  You're a woman!  You can do it on your own!"  Or, "You owe him nothing.  Nothing."  Most times, I'm saying it when it's absolutely not my place to say.  So, I'm trying to tone that down a tad, too.

Companionship?  I have my friends.  I have my family.  Right now, my life and my heart is filled with a six year old little boy.  Why not just devote all my energy into building him to be an incredible human being?  Doesn't that sound wonderful?  And noble?  And fulfilling?  Absolutely. 

Here's the one flaw.

It's big.

I love men. 

They are fabulous.  They are gorgeous.  They are yummy and scrumptious and ohhhhh, I just want one so bad.  Lately, I can't keep my mind (or my eyes) off men.  They are everywhere.  With their broad shoulders and their muscular arms and their chiseled jaw bone and their strong hands. 

*Gah*

I am so completely distracted, it's not even funny.  It's not necessarily just one man that I'm admiring more than the rest, either.  It's every (well, let's not get carried away, here...some men are just fugly, you know) man.  I'm admiring this one's eyes and that one's tushy and his shoulders and his height and that one's sense of humour and that one's voice.  Good God, I can't concentrate.  They are everywhere.  The grocery store - there they are.  The car next to me has one.  Everywhere I look, there *he* is.

What am I going to do?

I suggested a little idea to God...I said, "Hey God.  If you send *so-and-so* (biggest blogging mistake ever = mentioning names...ask me how I know) my way, then I will know you exist and I will be a way better person and go to church and yada yada..."  God, well...He's a little smarter than that...less than 24 hours later I found our that *so-and-so* has a girlfriend.  Although, if I ever needed proof God exists and has a sense of humour....

*Ball* Hockey Season for the lil Peanut...Sigh

With the change of seasons comes the change of extra curricular sports for Q.  I might be a Type A Soccer Mom, but I'm totally a Who Cares Ball Hockey Mom. 

I hate hockey.

I'm trying really, really hard to like it, because Q really, really, really, really, really loves it.  He eats, sleeps, drinks, breathes hockey.  He can have completely coherent adult conversations about hockey.  He knows what "Icing" means.  I think it's Icing.  Maybe it's off side?  I have no idea.  Maybe they're the same thing?  Anyways, if Q were here right now, I could ask him and he would tell me.

Ice hockey is ridiculously expensive.  Like insane expensive.  And I don't think any parent actually puts their kid in hockey unless they're planning for a return on their investment 15 years down the line.  I'm not sure any parent puts their son (or daughter...) in hockey solely because their child loves hockey.  Well, except for my best friend - I'm sure she did.  But everyone else has visions of million dollar contracts dancing in their head while at the rink on a crappy, snowy Saturday morning at 5 am. 

Ball hockey is the cheap alternative.  Unfortunately, this does not mean that it is any less intense or low key.  Q is in the Minor Ball Hockey league.  He's a Peanut.  That is probably the only cute thing about this whole sport.  Because Ice time is so coveted - okay, wait...I'm not even sure...is it called Ice time?  There's no Ice...Rink time, maybe?  But then what, they're out on the rink?  In the rink?  I have no idea how you refer to it when there's no ice - floor??  Because rink time is so coveted, the peanut division does not get any time to practice.  They only have games. 

Do you know what this means?

This means that you're putting a whole bunch of 6 year old's (oh, 6-8 year old's actually, but don't even get me started on #10 who is most definitely not 6 and probably not 8, either.  He's like 2 1/2 feet taller than all the other kids, and his dad is the coach...I'm just saying...)  So, you're putting a whole bunch of 6-8 year old kids on a regulation size rink and yelling at them for an hour.

No joke.

Believe me, I'm not laughing.

The poor little loves don't even know where to stand for a face off, let alone how to score a goal.  So, how do you fix that?  Well, if you're one of two coaches, you yell.  Hell, if you're two of two coaches, you yell.  So, each team has two coaches (can't have one coach alone with kids, because...........), there are two teams, that equals four coaches yelling at these sweet, beautiful children.  It can get pretty loud in there, with all the coaches yelling orders, so if you're really on the ball...you'll yell a little louder than the rest.

For an hour I hear, "HUSTLE" "USE THE BOARDS" "IT'S YOUR BALL" and "SHOOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

The kids don't know if they're coming or going.  They don't know if they're on the ice (rink/floor/whatever) or not.  And because grown men evidently cannot count, the little guys sit in the penalty box for 2 minutes because the there were 6 guys on the floor instead of 5.  Is that the poor little boy's fault?  No.  He's just doing what his coach told him to do.  Or maybe it was the other coach...on the other team...it was kind of difficult to hear.

I have to tell you, when I named my child I specifically took the time to find a name that was unique but not weird, uncommon but cool.  I didn't want him to be one of 15 Matthews in a class.  So, I named him Quinn.  I had never, ever heard the name before I named him Quinn. 

Ya...

Quinn is one of two Quinn's on his hockey team, and last week they were playing a team that also had two Quinn's and a Quinten.  My point?  Not only are they trying to figure out what their coaches are yelling at them, they're trying to figure out which Quinn they're yelling at.  My Quinn was one of four Quinn's.  Totally ironic thing?  Not one Matthew.  On either team. 

Okay, so we're using the boards.  We're hustling.  We're shooting.  Well *I'm* not.  That would just be wrong.  And Oh. My. Goodness. 24 seconds have passed.  It is, without any exaggeration at all, the longest hour of my life.  I can't tell which kid is mine unless he has his back to me and in some stroke of genius I remember what number he is.  For the longest time I thought he was lucky number 13 until I realized the running shoes didn't match.  Now, the only real way to figure out which kid is mine is to check the shoes.  And when my kid isn't playing I have absolutely no desire to watch. 

Or listen.  In addition to the grown ass men yelling all their dreams at these children, we have the parents yelling at their kids.  Ha, if you thought I was a Type A Soccer Mom, you should see some of these parents yelling.  Yelling at everyone - the refs (who are all of 12 years old), the kids ("Check 'em!!!") and the coaches ("PULL THE GOALIE" with 2 seconds to go in the game.  For real.)  Have we all lost our senses?  These are little boys (and girls) running around with sticks trying to hit a ball.  Give them a break.  Take a Prozac or a Ritalin and call it a day.

My heart breaks because Q wants to score a goal so friggen badly, but he's a 6 year old playing with a bunch of 8 year old Goliaths, and he's not been in the right place at the right time.  Truth be told, this kid is a stellar defense man.  Hands down, you need a kid to protect your goal and my kid is the man for the job. 

Two things I can live with:  The coach kept calling the kids by their name, and I thought "Dude, call them by their number it's way easier." and then I saw him specifically checking the names to the numbers and I realized that he was making a conscious effort to call them by name.  Think about it, you've just played your guts off and as you run by the players box (is that what they call it???) your coach yells out, "Good job, Quinn!"  How's that for a self-esteem booster, huh?  I'll put him in Ball Hockey again next year for that reason alone.  Number 12?  That's just a number, but Quinn....that's my name!!

Number 2 thing?  Our secret weapon is a girl named Emma.  Man, she rocks that game. 

Happy Momma's Day

There is really nothing else in this world that defines me as much as being "Mummy" to my Q.  It's who I am.  I can't even imagine my life without the little bug around.  I tell my mom that I should actually get presents from her on Mother's Day because without me, she wouldn't even be a mother.  (Coincidentally, I think she might be listening because this year, I actually did get some pressies from her...haha, my plan is working...)

One thing my ex and I started doing after the split was taking Q out and buying presents for the other parent on special occasions like Mother's Day or birthdays or Christmas.  Truthfully, it's never anything expensive, but Q, the ever determined little boy, always gets a clear idea in his head before we go shopping of what he wants to buy.

One year, for instance, I got a can opener.  Yup.  A can opener.  One of those electric ones that no one in the house knows how to use.  It takes like 20 minutes to open a can.  Seriously.  But the little guy was so excited, he could hardly even wait as I opened it on Christmas morning.  Once I had opened it and ohhhh'd and awwwwww'd over it, he says, "and you know what the best part is, Mommy?  Everything in the kitchen is white, but the can opener is black, so everyone will see it!!!"  How can you not keep a can opener for the next 20 years with excitement like that?  This year for Christmas I got an Iron.  So I "don't have to share with Nana anymore." 

I have a jewelry box that Q made two years ago for Mother's Day.  His dad says he spent hours every day for weeks (maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but maybe not) making it out of an old box.  It's the most beautiful jewelry box I've ever seen, if not the most practical.  My necklaces get tangled up in each other and I have a heck of a time finding my earrings, but I know I'll have it when I'm 85.  I know he smiles every single time I open it to get a ring out.  He knows I love it.

This year, Q made a storybook at school for me about me.  "This is my Mother," it says.  "She likes to sleep."  This just kills me, because out of everything in the whole world he could say, two years in a row he's written about how much I like to sleep.  I've got to find a more exciting hobby!  "She looks the prettiest when we go to the beach.  I love her very much because she loves me back."  It's stuff like this that makes me just want to bawl.  He's just such a beautiful little guy.

Then, there's stuff like this....

Q:  Mommy, if dinosaurs were still alive, they would eat you.

Me:  Ya, well...they'd eat you too!

Q:  No.  They only like the fat ones.

Yup, such a beautiful little guy....

Happy Mother's Day, my friends.