Awkward Mom vs. Photos part II

Now, where were we? Oh yes, lying in a snowbank.

By the time I manage to extract Super Toddler and myself from the snowbank, we are both soaking wet but still 15 minutes early for the appointment. Sometimes, it is all in how you look at it, right? Awkward Dad holds Super Toddler in a vise grip for the rest of the way and I push the stroller; we slosh through Sears to a few stares. I try to tell myself that it is because my children are so cute, but it might be the squishing noise that I am making. We enter the photo studio and check in. We rock/paper/scissors for changing duties, and my rock falls to Awkward Dad's paper. I gather up Super Toddler and we seek a bathroom.

Said bathroom is about 10 miles from the photo studio and past every Christmas item you could possibly imagine, including a creepy animatronic Santa that laughs and sings at us long after we pass him. I can still feel his eyes on the back of my head, yikes! We finally reach the bathroom, sans changing table, of course. I peel off Super Toddler's sodden clothes and attempt to change him in the corner (on a portable mat I have for such occasions, having learned my lesson during a particularly disgusting bathroom in Indiana). Anyway, we are down to his diaper when a especially festive song comes over the intercom and Super Toddler gets the urge to dance. Well, who am I to stand in the way of art? He Michael-Flatleys himself over to the sinks and back, and then for some unknown reason, the bathroom is invaded by every other Sears patron. I don't know if someone told them we were giving out cookies or free animatronic Santas in here or what, but suddenly it is very crowded, blocking my view of Super Toddler's big finish. His twirls are impressive but I have a feeling that isn't why these ladies are staring at him. I race over and gather him up, hurry back to our corner, and change him as fast as humanly possible. All this changing has resulted in his hair standing straight up, so I go digging for the comb that I am sure I packed before we left the house. You all know how that search goes, so I won't bore you. It ends with me leaning Super Toddler over the sink and patting his head with water, trying in vain to tame his alfalfa. When this doesn't work, I do what moms all over creation do, after plenty of pre-child swearing that they will never, ever do this. I lick my hand and plaster his errant cowlick to his skull, causing gasps of horror or nods of understanding from the audience of women watching me, depending on age and parental status.

We return to the photo studio to find Super Baby chewing on a block and Awkward Dad discussing the finer points of gaming with a tween boy playing a hand held video game. While Awkward Dad and this boy discuss the best names for monster trucks and Super Toddler heads straight for some girls in festive velvet dresses, I grab Super Baby and change him right there in the waiting room because we are no longer early for our appointment. We are called back soon after that and I have to drag both Awkward Dad and Super Toddler away from their new friends. Awkward Dad comes willingly, more or less, but Super Toddler hangs on to his friends, "the princesses," for dear life and has to be bodily carried into the photo room. Resulting in this:

The unwillingness to cooperate continues and this and this quickly follow:

Of course, those are followed by these:





We give up on the joint photo at this point and pick the last one, even though it looks like a strange and terrifying mug shot from the turn of the century. Whatever, they are clean and both looking at the camera, and sometimes that is all you get.

We decide to focus on Super Toddler, who is much more interested in focusing on the waiting area princesses. To distract him for the royals, we petition for a large letter or number, knowing Super Toddler's partiality to over-sized anything. We settle on a huge 3, since he is now closer to 3 than 2. (Can you believe it?!) The number turns out to be a mixed blessing. It definitely distracts him from the princesses, but now he is so enamored with the number, that he won't look at the camera. To combat this, our expert photographer (who was about 16...maybe) tells Super Toddler to lie down in front of the number. Moving temptation out of direct eyesight and resulting in this:

Ummm...no. That is not gonna work. So, we let him stand back up and get Awkward Dad to dance around in his goofiest manner until we finally get this out of Super Toddler:

Good enough! We free Super Toddler to cavort with velvet clad princesses, and we turn our attention to Super Baby. Now, bear in mind that Super Baby has turned mobile since our last experience with professional pictures. I won't bore you guys with it, but the next 10 minutes look a lot like this:



Oh boy. OK, eventually, after much pleading, dancing, and super human patience on the part of the photographer, we get this:
Pretty much worth the whole rotten day, right? Of course, the cherubic red cheeks are due to his illness and he completely blew out his diaper right after this picture. But we can just keep that between us, right? No need to ruin my mother-in-law's Christmas gift with the back story, eh? Thanks, guys!

Readers, seriously, it was the vilest thing ever, resulting in nearly a complete package of wipes and the evacuation of the changing-table-less bathroom. Probably serves Awkward Mom right for dragging her poor sick baby out just to feed her unexplainable need for professional photos. However, we will respect her wishes and just enjoy these glorious pictures of the Super Boys. Merry Christmas all!

Have an Awesomely Awkward Christmas! We can't wait for new adventures in 2011!

Awkward Mom vs Photos - Part I

Awkward Mom takes on a photo shoot at Sears...oh me, when will she learn?

Christmas 2008, we decide that we need professional pictures of Super Toddler. No one really knows why we decide this, but suddenly there it is. A strange compulsion that just appears that first Christmas. No one explains that this is going to happen; no one even bothers to warn you. I am thinking of writing to the editors of “What to Expect When You are Expecting” and asking them to include this phenomenon, so that no one else is surprised by this irrepressible urge to pay someone to document the existence of their child in front of a winter-themed backdrop. We can’t fight it, so, we haul our 10-month-old bundle of joy off to Sears and have it done. It is glorious. He smiles. He coos. He poses on a sled, while wearing a tiny sweater vest with a reindeer on it. It is like a Christmas Baby Gap ad sugar-dipped in extra cuteness. We are elated with the results and we give those pictures to everyone; grandparents, friends, relatives 8 times removed, folks on the street. We feel that we have captured Norman Rockwell’s Christmas in that close-up of Super Toddler, in a festive onsie and itty-bitty corduroy pants, gazing beatifically toward the painted mountains over his right shoulder.

Christmas 2009 is a different story. Awkward Dad is deep in his residency interview travels, and Awkward Mom is very pregnant with soon-to-arrive Super Baby. Our sugary-sweet 10-month-old has morphed into a rather active toddler. Add to that a family-wide battle royale with arch-villain Stomach-Flu. Yea….photos don’t happen Christmas 2009. They happen by Easter 2010 and are a rushed affair, squeezed in between playdates and packing. Super Toddler attempts to run through the scenic backdrop. Super Baby falls asleep while posed on some black velvet bunting. We use a coupon, don’t even bother with props, and buy the bare minimum photos that we need for grandparents. And thus, our shameful decent into second child neglect begins.

Determined to not repeat the slacker holiday of last year or neglect Super Baby anymore than we already have (where is that baby book, anyway?), we call up Sears and make an appointment. Then, we sit back and pat ourselves on that back. Too soon, it turns out. Super Baby comes down with some explosive GI concerns, and I do mean explosive, my friends. If I could bottle what is going on in his intestines, I could be the next Alfred Nobel. (Wikipedia him, I’ll wait.) Needless to say, we have to reschedule, and we do, for the day we get a massive snowstorm and Sears cancels on us. They then reschedule us for a Tuesday evening at 7pm and we take it. We take it knowing that Awkward Dad will be on call the night before. We take it knowing that the doctor’s office told us Super Baby’s virus can last 2 weeks. We take it knowing that no sane parent takes their children to the mall so close to Christmas. We take it because…well, I don’t really know why and “What to Expect When You are Expecting” won’t tell me. Whatever deep physiological forces are at work here will remain a mystery, but know this; they are strong enough to get all of us to Sears at 7pm on a Tuesday.

First things first though, we need some cute outfits. Luckily for us, Aunt Awkward has sent her Christmas gift early this year and it is an entire box of child couture. Ok, well, it is an entire box of clothes from Gymboree, which is couture enough for me!








Super Baby selects a festive monkey onsie and sock set, made casual cool with his pairing of jeans and bedhead. He throws on a red and brown sweater to tie the whole look together. Genius!











Super Toddler dons a dinosaur themed ensemble in muted beige and brown, paired with grey cords and casual, yet fashionable sneakers. It is a true feast of the eyes....especially if you are a hungry T-Rex.








Now, you aren't thinking that I dress them in these outfits and let them wear them to the mall, are you? Oh no. Familiar with Super Toddler's flying leaps into any available snow, and painfully aware of Super Baby's current GI maladies, I tuck these stunning fashion creations into a bag and dressed them in stained sweaters and frayed jeans. We all pile into the car, 45 minutes before our appointment (a new record!) and head into early evening traffic, which is extraordinarily heavy in our neighborhood this time of year. Must be all those holidays shoppers completing their Christmas lists....hmmm, guess I ought to make a list. But hey, if this picture field trip works out, guess I won't have to!

After a harried drive to the mall and a discussion with Super Toddler that Awkward Dad just thought he saw a donkey in a passing car, hence his calling to him in a rather loud manner, we arrive in the Sears parking lot, ahead of schedule. Amazing work! We bundle the boys into the double stroller and make slow and sure process toward the door. New Flash, it appears that Super Toddler can now unbuckle his stroller strap. This, of course, results in an escape of epic proportions. He narrowly avoids collisions with 2 cars, while drenching his boots, the lower half of his pants, and all of me (who, by the way, has no change of clothes in Mom's magic diaper bag). I tackle him into a passing snowbank. As I lie there, clutching Super Toddler and the teeny tiny shred of my dignity that isn't soaking wet, I debate the wisdom of taking the boys for professional photographs. What is so great about sparkly backdrops and giant birthday numbers anyway?

We'll be sure to tell you, in the next installment of Awkward Mom! Be sure to tune in; this one has huge number 3s, diapers worthy of Mr. Nobel, and this:

Awkward Mom vs. Time

Dear Readers, please forgive my lack of posts. I am doing serious battle with holy-cats-is-it-really-a-week-until-Christmas. Plus, I took the boys to get their yearly photos done. The process looked like this:
I'll be back to tell you all about it as soon as I address all these Christmas cards, figure out how to bake, locate the source of that weird smell, and wrap a Mr. Potato Head. Back in a flash!

Awkward Mom vs Jello

Awkward Mom is asked to bring a dish to a holiday party.....silly host.

OK...so, I am fairly certain that we have not discussed my prowess in the kitchen. This is because it does not exist. Nope, no prowess here. I am not being modest either. I freely own up to the myriad of superpowers that I wield on a daily basis. (The fact that I can not think of one right now does not deter me, I have many.) However, I have not been blessed in the culinary arts. At all. I periodically attempt to increase my skills in this area, but prowess continues to elude me. A saner person might not aim for prowess right off the bat, they might seek adequate tries, bang-up jobs, or bully attempts. (Apparently, my imaginary saner person is Theodore Roosevelt...) Anyway, Awkward Mom has never really been one for sane approaches.

The Awkward family has been invited to a holiday party and asked to bring a dessert. For someone whose idea of making cookies is to assist the Pillsbury Doughboy in the process, this request is daunting. But I have convinced myself that I am up to the challenge! I have also been asked to make something without dairy, gluten, nuts, or eggs. Umm...ok, I can do this. Further interrogation of the host results in the gentle suggestion that I make some Jello. I am momentarily heartbroken. Jello? Really? How am I ever going to develop any kitchen prowess (can't stop saying it!) if I am relegated to making the children's dessert? But no matter. I will do it and it will be the greatest Jello dessert in the history of Jello desserts! Famous last words...

A quick check of jello.com (oh yea, check it out, I will wait) immediately relieves me of the illusion that this is going to be easy or in any way great. There are hundreds of recipes on here, each more daunting then the last. Cherry Royale. Banana Pineapple Passion. Chocolate Elegance. Citrus Sensation. I click on something called Cool 'N Easy Pie to get lost in a labyrinth of molds and cooling times. Florida Sunshine Salad loses me with its abundance of Miracle Whip. Watergate Salad is confusing and not as political as I thought it would be. I am fascinated by Cosmo Bites and Mojito Granita until I remember my audience. I am debating between a Hidden Treasure Cake and a Holiday Ribbon Mold when a quick look in my pantry reminds me that I have no Jello mold. A quick look into my soul alerts me to the fact that there is no way I am gonna be able to "cut a 1 inch wide, 1 inch deep tunnel inside the center of the cake, avoid cutting all the way through the cake." I am tempted by the line "remove and save cutout for snack," but we all know the Hidden Treasure Cake just is beyond me.

However, the routing around in the pantry does unearth a set of cookie cutters given to me by my friend, the eternal optimist. They are all the letters in the alphabet, previously the sole belongings of Super Toddler, banished to the back of the pantry after he started cheating on them with the fridge magnet letters. This generates an idea; the cookie cutters, that is. Not Super Toddler's fickle nature. Why not make a sheet of Jello and cut out the letters for Merry Christmas? The directions for making plain, regular Jello are right there on the side of the box and even I understand all of them. How hard can it be to cut out letters and spell a festive phrase? More famous last words...

I am boiling water (even I can do that) when Super Toddler appears in the kitchen and demands to help. He pulls a chair over and climbs on up. Super Toddler enjoys helping in the kitchen. He is usually helping his father, who does possess kitchen prowess, but he seems quite content to muddle along with me as I search the cabinets for mixing bowls and spoons. I suppose you are all wondering why Awkward Dad isn't making our dessert, given the nature of his culinary superpowers. I could tell you that it is because I want to defeat my fears of food, that I want to prove to myself and the world that I am able and strong and just as talented as any of those crafty moms I am so jealous of. I could wax poetic about the joy of climbing a mountain just for the exhilaration of looking back and seeing how far you have come. You know, the mountain being my fear of cooking and the journey of Jello being what I am looking back on...or something. These are great reasons. They are not the reasons. The reason is that he is at work.

OK, where was I? Right, I am boiling water, and doing a fine job of it too! The fact that it is my 2 year old son who coolly opens the drawer next to his chair and pulls out the spoons I am scouring the kitchen for is not something upon which I wish to dwell. Let's just say that we find the needed items by the time the water has boiled. We mix the Jello powder and water easily, if a tad energetically, and soon we have vibrant reds and greens in our bowls. And on the counter. On the floor. On Super Baby, who has somehow teleported in here. And all over Super Toddler's hair, the chair he pulled over here, the knife block, the coffee maker, and my shirt. I resolve to deal with that later, as I seek and find 3 Pyrex containers of varying sizes and depths. Super Toddler and I set them out and debate our options. We ultimately decide to pour the red into the biggest container, and we separate the green into the two smaller ones. Super Toddler has a heavy hand and one ends up quite a bit deeper than the other one, but no matter. It will all work out, right? It's just Jello. I have got to stop with these last words....

We cool the Jello for the required three hours, giving me time to clean up the kitchen and get the boys in bed for naps. Neither of these things happen, but 3 hours is enough time to do that in. Just thought I would mention it. We pull out our Jello sheets, set them on the counter, and admire their jewel-like brightness. They are beautiful, glinting in the afternoon sun, but we are not done with them yet. Oh no. I intend for them to produce a masterpiece that will increase my self-esteem, demonstrate my skills as a mother, and maybe even produce a gasp or two when it is revealed at the party. Best get to it then.

Super Baby is doing figure eights around my legs and Super Toddler is demanding a Jello Z, but I attempt to tune them out and cut out the first letter, an innocent enough M. I place the cutter on the Jello, push down, and pull it back up...empty. Hmm...I can see the cut M, nestled in its Jello womb, seemingly unwilling to break free of the nest and be the lead actor in my statement dessert. In actuality, it is just stuck to the bottom of the pan, something I discover when I attempt to pry it out with a knife. I tear it in half, as I completely butcher the surrounding Jello in a misguided removal process. My terribly thin, reedy M stands alone on the plate and nearly reduces me to tears. I consult jello.com for some advice, and am soon back in the saddle, ducking the bottom of the Pyrex dishes in hot water.

The removal of the red R and Y go rather well. The H ends up with some stringy parts, but the I is near perfection. The T is fine, but the middle of the A refuses to come out, resulting in a letter that looks like a triangle. I have nearly half the red Jello left, but I move on to the green Jello. I want some contrast in my dessert, you see. I push the E into the green and immediately notice a problem. Remember how Super Toddler was rather generous with one of the green trays? Well, said tray just ate my E cookie cutter. Yep, the green surface of the Jello has engulfed and devoured the whole thing. I am left with no alternative but to dive in after it. I fish out an E much thicker than any of my current letters. I place it on the plate anyway, but seriously, once it is in direct comparison to the other letters, it looks like it is on steroids.

I will not be bested by thick Jello. I will not. I grab the other tray and attempt to cut out another E, only to have it fall apart in the removal process. The same thing happens with the R and the C. I am running out of good sized green Jello, so I am extremely careful with the Ss. They turn out nicely. However, the M has to come from the thick Jello, I simply have no choice. Fine. A little variety never hurt anyone, right? For balance, or maybe just to distract from my odd sized green letters, I cut Ho Ho Ho out of the abundance of red Jello. I spell out my opus on a plate and stare at it. It is hideous. It is boring. It looks like nothing on jello.com. It is a plate of odd shaped Jello letters. What in the world was I thinking?

I start to cry. Super Toddler and Super Baby are feasting on Jello remains and throwing letters at each other. They completely ignore me and offer no assistance. A quick dig through the pantry reveals 3 more boxes of Jello; cherry, lime, and raspberry. I decide my Jello letters need a base to sit on. Clearly, I can't use the same flavors/colors, so Raspberry becomes my only option and it is only 4 ounces. Oh well. I steal the red Pyrex dish from the super boys and wash it, while the water is boiling. No time for 3 hour cooling spells now, so I return to jello.com and discover that you can use half boiling water and half ice water to speed the cooling time to 90 minutes. Amazing. Super Toddler gets his chair and we assemble the raspberry base, pop it into the fridge, and go watch Pingu.

90 minutes later, I remove my Raspberry beauty and adorn it with my letters. It still looks hideous, but it no longer looks boring. It looks like something Martha Stewart's hillbilly cousin might make and think is the height of class. I am out of time, ideas, and mixing bowls. It will have to do. I snap on the top, gather the boys, and head to the party. Where my hideous Jello letter "cake" is a huge hit with the kids, reminding me of these very important lessons. "The manner of giving is worth more than the gift"(Pierre Corneille). "We should give as we would receive, cheerfully, quickly, and without hesitation; for there is no grace in a benefit that sticks to the fingers" (Seneca). "When your audience thinks that the pinnacle of culinary greatness is the fruit snack, you have nothing to worry about" (Awkward Mom).

Awkward Mom would like to assure you that if you invite her to your next holiday party, she will ask Awkward Dad to make a pie.

The Aftermath...

Awkward Mom vs. Call

Awkward Dad's job necessitates overnight call sometimes; sometimes being pretty much every 3 or 4 days. This has made schedules and order a little tricky in the kingdom of Awkward. Well, that is the line Awkward Mom has come up with to justify why her children sometimes go to bed at 10pm and why dinner routinely seems to consist of pirogies and grapes. Tonight happens to be such a night.



More ketchup! I seem to hear this about 14 times every dinner, regardless of the entree. To be fair, yes, I may have overcooked the pirogies, a little. Still, I am pretty sure that any level of dryness would not warrant the red sea that is currently lapping at the edges of Super Toddler's plate. However, I am tired (big surprise), so I acquiesce rather easily. I must be tired because I also have absolutely no comment when he proceeds to dunk his grapes in the ketchup. Then, I know I am really tired when Super Baby makes a lunge from the highchair and sinks his hands into Super Toddler's plate, and it doesn't even phase me. I just blink at him while he smears ketchup everywhere, generating a look not unlike a stabbing victim. Luckily, it is bath night.

No, my children do not takes baths every night. I think we have already discussed my chances for winning mother of year, so I figure baths aren't going to make me or break me at this point. However, once in awhile, the smell, the dirt, or, in this case, the ketchup, just becomes all too much for wet wipes and sleeves, and those are bath nights. Lucky me.

Around here, baths are a production on the level of a Cecil B. DeMille movie. The toys, the bubbles, the pageantry. Getting just the right temperature between scalding and freezing from old apartment pipes that hate me. Super Baby touching the invisible force field that ropes off Super Toddler's personal bath space and all hell breaking loose in a flurry of sudsy water that now covers my glasses, my shirt, and the socks I foolishly wore into the bathroom. Trying to walk that fine line between protection and repression when it comes to Super Baby's boundless enthusiasm for water and flinging his face into it. You know, just the mom panic and those untold hazards that are involved with 2 little boys careening into each other and slipping around on wet, deadly hard tile.



About the time my shirt turns translucent, Super Toddler hollers for the removal of Super Baby. I decide to oblige, which produces howls of glee from Super Toddler and howls of indignation from the squirming naked water baby now in my arms. Super Baby thrashes in his towel prison until the only part of him the towel is covering is his left arm. It is covering far more of me, soaking my pants. Super Baby shakes himself like a dog and now I can't see out of my glasses. I bumble into the nursery, dropping the towel and banging my right leg on the door frame. This turns Super Baby into a very wet football that I am trying desperately not to drop, which in turn results in the flying leap of me and Super Baby onto Super Toddler's bed. Which is now soaking wet. Great.

I heave us off the bed and give Super Baby one of Super Toddler's toys (don't tell). He immediately sticks it in his mouth and quiets enough for me to get him onto the changing table. I can hear Super Toddler talking about mermaids and making splashing sounds that don't sound like drowning ones, so I proceed to diaper and dress Super Baby. About the time I finish with that, Super Toddler's monologue shifts to don't poop in the tub..Mommy says don't poop in the tub. I pretty much throw Super Baby into the crib and fly into the bathroom. Turns out to be a false alarm for which I am eternally grateful, but I get him out of there anyway. Super Toddler gives in to the tub removal, but he wants to dry himself. He clothes himself in his "princess" (a blue hooded towel that his Aunt Maggie made for him), firmly places the hood on his head, and directs me to admire his beautiful hair. Once he is suitably admired, he regally pushes the towel back, so that it flutters about him like a cape and directs me to admire his pretty dress. He parades about the bathroom for awhile before inspiration strikes and he dashes into his room. He roots around a toy box before finding 2 bracelets, a Hello Kitty lip balm necklace, and a tiara that he puts on like a belt. Thus adorned, he stalks the hallways, shouting about castles and dragons for the better part of the next half hour. Super Baby, freed from the crib after some rather ear-splitting negotiation, is quite content to trail after his half-naked princess brother, while I change Super Toddler's damp sheets.

Eventually, Super Toddler resigns himself to wearing a diaper with his outfit. 20 minutes after that, he agrees to pjs. However, he must pick them out. He debates for awhile, perturbed that the Buzz Lightyear ones are dirty and not available. He settles on some with monkeys, but only after we embellish the look with a pink sash and mommy's shoes. He then insists on one more Pingu before bed. I am too tired to fight, so I agree. Now Readers, you know I love Netflix so much my husband thinks I am cheating on him with it, but sometimes the near infallibility of Netflix can be suspect. Case in point, Pingu. It started suggesting that we might like Pingu after Super Toddler exhausted Shaun the Sheep, Super Why, and Angelina Ballerina, and I have to admit Netflix is right, Super Toddler adores Pingu. I, on the other hand, merely stand there in confused horror as this bizarre, Swedish, claymation penguin carpers and cavorts through some of the weirdest story-lines I have seen in children's television. Currently, he is accompanying his father, a penguin postman with a strangely Italian accent, as he delivers mail to some igloos. He delivers a black-trimmed telegram to a old lady penguin and Pingu sheds a tear, forcing me to envision her penguin son being gunned down in the battle of Dunkirk. I am trying to figure out if he was in the ground forces or air personal when I glance at the clock. Holy Cats, why is it 9:15? Enough, it is time for bed!

I drag the boys to the bathroom, where we brush teeth and Super Baby attempts to climb back into the tub. Then, I herd them into the nursery for bed. Super Toddler climbs into his with 13 stuffed animals, while Super Baby rebels against the crib in a tone normally reversed for fire drills. We attempt story time, which goes something like this (for the purposes of this portion of the story, this is me, this is Super Toddler, and this is Super Baby):

Once upon a time, there was a princess! And she had beautiful glowing hair. And she lived in a hot dog. Umm..yes, a hot dog. AHHH! This hot dog was in the middle of the forest, by a giant lake with fish and mermaids and bubbles. AHH! And the princess decided to have a ball. Yes, a ball. And she invited Rapunzel and fireflies and Odie. Odie? AHHHH! Yes, Odie. OK, so the princess is having this ball with Odie and Rapunzel when... and fireflies! Oh, yes, and the fireflies. AHH! When...an evil witch comes. Yes, the evil witch comes in with...fireflies! Fireflies? Yes. OK, with fireflies and a dragon. and sticks. Of course, a dragon and some sticks. So...Burp. Then, the evil witch sends her dragon to get the princess. And fireflies! And the fireflies too. So...the prince. AHHH! Right, so the prince comes and he...the fairy godmothers! The fairy godmothers do what? They give a sword. Oh right, they give him sword. No! No? AH! No, they give sword to Rapunzel. Oh, OK. So, what does the prince do? Hides. Hides? Hides in the bushes. Umm..OK. So the prince hides in the bushes and Rapunzel...Princess! And the princess slays the dragon. Laughs. No! No? Poofs! Oh, sorry, she poofs the dragon. And witch! And the witch, and they never bother them again. So, the ball goes on and...they dance! They dance in new shoes! Right, the fairy godmothers give them new shoes and they dance all night long in the hot dog. Snorts. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. Well, that is a different one. Different story! Coo. Oh no, now it is time to sleep. No! Yes, time for bed. NO! AH!

I leave to the melodious tones of toddler tantrums and baby burbles. 3 minutes later, they are both snoring. I settle onto the couch and survey the damage. I am fairly certain every one of Super Toddler's 4328 toys is out here, the dining table looks like a crime scene, and apparently Pingu and his father just cracked the egg and the new baby might be dead. I pick up the remote and let Netflix tell me that I should watch Fawlty Towers or Cake Boss. I fail to make a selection before I fall asleep, and I proceed to dream about John Cleese and some bakers fighting Italian penguins on the front lines of World War II.

Oh, fear not, good readers. After all, Awkward Dad isn't on call for 3 more days. And 3 days after that. And after that. And on Christmas Eve. And well...residency is only 3 and 1/2 more years anyway, right? No worries, none at all. Meet us back here next week for the next installment of the Adventures of Awkward Mom!