Why I'm Sitting on the Couch on a Beautiful Day

Dear Parents of Little Surf-Rat Toddler,

Do you have any idea just how cute I find your baby girl? With her 18-24 months skinny jeans, her checkered vans, and her silky, pink hoody? Clearly, you know she's cute. Clearly, she knows you know she's cute. And clearly this little peanut is winning battles at home. Her wispy bed-headed hair all tricked out with hints of, "No, dat my hay-er mama." "No bwush my hay-er." I just loved her instantly.

Which is why I scooped her up from the eight-kicking-legs of four-swinging-children at varying speeds and intervals. Twice. Her little diaper-padded, skinny jeaned bottom was toddling in a game of swing Frogger, and how she survived without getting cartoon-jettisoned over the monkey bars is beyond me. Which is why I toted her on my hip for a moment while I searched for the parent who must have been having a major emergency elsewhere with her other darling children.

Searching for the owner of the toddler, and pushing my own two kiddos on the swing, I carefully placed Little Miss Surfer Baby in a kinder spot on the playground. Until, she came back to the spider legs of the swings.

Scooping her up, again as her hair is grazed by a giant pumping of the feet, where is your mommy?, I ask?

Dat. Bah. La-lee-fing, she says (or something like that).

Dude, where is this kids' mommy? I wonder.

I begrudgingly place her down again near the slide, fearful of looking like some kidnapper. When sure enough a school-aged boy playing a game of I'm not watching where I'm running smacks straight into my new little surfer friend.

And...cue concerned parent. Here you come. Racing (well, trying to race in your Victoria's Secret lace-up ankle boots) to her rescue.

And cue...dirty look. To me. WTH?

And cue...me wondering if it was your Blackberry or your stilettos in the sand that impeded your graceful parenting.

And cue...school aged kids' mom getting a mouthful of why weren't you watching your kid as he bulldozed over my baby?

And cue...jaw-dropping of school aged kids' mom.

And cue...me convincing the kids that watching Sponge Bob, at home is way more fun than swinging.

Bragging Brings Bad Karma

Lesson learned.  Well, this time at least.  I got all braggy about going on a trip sans kids.  And I got all braggy about floating in a lazy river with drinks in hand.  And I got all braggy about getting the house we wanted.  

Well thanks a lot MISTER Karma, because now I can't brag anymore, at least not verbally.  'Cause I seem to have a bad case of effing fever blisters on my effing bottom lip that make it effing miserable to eat, nag, brag, talk, or sip a salted margarita glass.  It looks a little something like this, but not on my tush.  It looks like lip-injection gone bad.  

Fuckity fuck it hurts.  So, no vacation pictures.  Just me all complaining today.  With lots of meds.  And a little sympathy.  A little.    

So, it turns out you're not supposed to be in the sun when shit like this gets on your lip.  Thanks Arizona sunshine.  My tan lines are digging you, my lip, notsomuch.