Babies and beer

9.21.2011

What's wrong with this picture.

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I know. Absolutely horrible, right?

I mean, look at all that gray in my husband's beard! So not ok. Better get to dying that shit babe. Momma no likie.

Oh wait. You weren't thinking that the fact that my one year old is reaching for the beer that my three year old is pretending to drink was what was wrong with the picture, were you?

Phew. I mean, that's a regular occurrence in our house.

I'm not sure what it was, but on this particular day, the babe was all obsessed with daddy's beer.

Like, had to have it.

For example:

I saw him down on this lil' rock here for an impromptu photo shoot. I had the beer in my hand thinking it would make the babe smile when I "peek-a-booed" it from behind the camera.

Uh. He just got pissed.

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And more pissed.

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And even more pissed.

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'Til I handed it over.

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(I can just imagine what he's thinking; "that's right bish. Don't mess with the Boss.")

Then he just chilled.

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And showed a hint of a smile.

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All is good. Weez happy now.

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At least all was good until tragedy struck and the beer can got pierced by a sharp rock. And sprayed all over babe's face.

And then hubs picked it up and shotgunned the rest.

We are fabulous parents.

Oh, say "hey" to my oldest, never wanting to be left out. Pretty sure he knocked the baby off that rock and said baby is just to the right of this picture crying tears of horror.

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And yes, that is pink polish on his toenails.

Oh, say "hey" to the hubs again, with his nice frosted facial hair.

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Hey hubs.

Oh look, a baby in a tree.

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I sat him up there and told him to hang on and not to let go.

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For the sake of my mother not getting extremely mad at me, let's just say that he did not in fact fall out of the tree. And not only did he not fall from that tree, but he did not fall flat on his face and cry for a good thirty minutes.

He did not fall from the tree. Are we clear on that?

Good.

You know what I love? This one.

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And myself when I'm having a good hair day.

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Ok fine. So the baby is having a better hair day than me.

He represents well.


A fairytale*

9.19.2011

There once lived a family of four. My gawd were they gorgeous.

Kinda like Brad and Angelina.

Times ten.

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I take that back. Brad and Angelina times like a million.

Yeah, definitely more like a million.

The children always had smiles on their faces. Precious little angels.

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(notice the neatly folded hands? such a delight, those two)

The oldest offspring never complained. In fact, he was so compliant, his parents often referred to him as their "little marionette doll." Never gave even a peep of trouble.

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The baby of the family? Holy heavens, worth a King's ransom, that one.

He too never complained. Or cried. Or moped. Or whined. In fact, you would never know he was even there if it wasn't for the constant kisses he wanted to slop on you. The cutest little thing you ever did see.

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The baby had a head full of lush, primitive hair. Especially in the morning.

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 His parents refused to cut his hair, mainly because it pissed off anonymous commenters who wondered aloud why on earth someone would do that to their child.**

This family often took lavish vacations. Of course, the little cherubs were nothing short of perfection; never and I mean never crying on the airplane. And if they weren't jet-setting off somewhere far away and tropical, they made the quick jaunt by houseboat to the local beach.

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They were Regal, that's for sure.

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The little one would sit in silence while the older one practiced his swimming.

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Which gave their parents a lot of time to sit back, relax, pop a top off and even take a nap. Yes, they could take a nap while their children played on the beach. They were that well behaved.

Would you believe me if I told you the three year old even washed the family car?

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I mean, he was promised dinner, so I suppose it was a pretty easy decision to make.

Back to the strikingly gorgeous parents I talked about earlier. The husband was usually hounded by modeling agencies, begging him to come work with them. But he didn't want to wear a man-thong, so they sent him a fedora instead.

Even though he was so not the fedora-wearing type.

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(oh hey little one)

And the mother? They basically just paid her to breath.

That's how spectacular she was.

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THE END.

*This is a fictional story and does not depict any actual person or event.

In fact, it is complete bullshit.

**except this part.