Scenes from Easter weekend at the Grand Hotel, Point Clear, Alabama.
It’s such a magical place. Just over an hour away, but it feels like you’re a world away. Magnificent oak trees with Spanish Moss. A little candy kitchen. Beautiful flowers in full bloom. Tea time. Croquet. Hammocks.
I love this Easter tradition of ours.
The children are up waaaay early from their naps. And they’ve found some intense magical energy source that’s making act like they’re on cocaine. I actually fell asleep, hard, because I have been getting very little actual sleep at night due to a certain one year old who still wakes up screaming bloody murder at least 3 times between 11 and 5.
Emma is chasing the dog and yelling what sounds to be Vietnamese obscenities at her.
Kylie just said something about filling a bucket with water and I’m praying she’s using that over active imagination of hers.
Oh hell. I hear running water…
Meltdown causes today include:
-Her PBJ (not toast) for breakfast was closed, not open.
-Her now open PBJ got her fingers sticky.
-Her now closed PBJ isn’t right.
-The dog is by her. She doesn’t want to pet the dog.
-Why is the dog all the way over there?
-She pinched her knuckle, and it hurt.
-Her drink isn’t right, but she doesn’t know what’s wrong with its location.
-She closed her head in the pantry. Twice.
-Her toe keeps slipping.
-Her hair is in her face, but she doesn’t want it brushed, in a barrette, or in a ponytail.
-Her pizza is sideways.
-Her pizza has rectangles, not squares.
-She broke her pizza.
-She has a paper towel, not a napkin.
-She wants to sit in that side of the chair, but she’s slipping.
-Squares are not triangles.
And we’re not even half way through lunch. Sometimes it’s infuriating, and sometimes its tough not to laugh. Cracking a smile during a meltdown makes her seven times as angry.
Last Friday she went to the Dr. because she had a terrible cough. Double ear infection. She swears her ears don’t hurt.
Do ear infections cause epic meltdowns every 40 seconds?
I’ve been working in oil pastels this week in an attempt to satiate the longing for paint. I don’t remember the last time I worked in color. I’ve been living by charcoal.
Kylie saw all of the oil sticks and gasped. She asked with such quiet desperation in her voice if she could use them, and I could hear that she expected me to tell her no. When I said she could, she ran to the table as fast as her little feet could carry her.
She just stared, wide-eyed, at all of the colors. The she hovered her hand over the box, quickly moving her fingers against her thumb, just as I do when deciding which to pick up. She took each one, made a small mark, then went back for another color, pausing occasionally to inspect the worn wrappers or to feel the buttery texture on her fingers.
She treated them almost reverently, completely in awe that she could share Mommy’s special supplies.
Crying like the world is ending;
Mom! I need you to get Emma! Get her away!
Mom! Wait! Why are you leaving!
No! I’m not ready for breakfast!
I don’t want pancakes! I need cereal!
Milk in my bowl, please.
I need my milk in a cup!
Why are you making oatmeal? I wanted pancakes!
I want to dip them in syrup! Aaaaahhh! It fell off in the syrup!
Ow! I hurt myself!
I just hit my face with my hand! Ow!
All in the span of about 20 minutes. Toddlers, man. They have problems.