Pie Makes Things Better

(Programming Note: This post was written during the post-Thanksgiving weekend and the pictures of Sam are from a quick trip to the beach a few weeks ago. That is all.)

It's been two days since Thanksgiving happened and I'm still ridiculously full of pie. I should be outside running laps around the house, but instead I'm sitting in the den at my in-laws while my husband watches football (i.e. sleeps) and my little guy snoozes in the back bedroom.

(I'd just like to toss in a shout-out to my father-in-law who made chocolate pecan derby pie AND pumpkin pie with cloves this Thanksgiving. I ate approximately twenty-five pieces, which means I may need to borrow your treadmill, or rent out the Y for the next few months.)

Anyway, today included an inaugural visit to Trader Joe's with my mother-in-law, where I purchased practical, necessary things like dark chocolate, gummy bears, tortilla chips and more chocolate. I found out that I like Trader Joe's and might be willing to move to another state to live near one. This is probably not a legitimate reason to ask my husband to quit his job. And yet, the produce selection was heart palpitation-inducing and the cheese and salami section made me a bit giddy, so maybe. Anyway, this post wasn't supposed to turn into a love letter to Trader Joe's, so I'll move on.

We've been hanging out with the in-laws for the past few days and it's been a good time. I've also gained approximately 6.5 pounds, but that's information you really don't need. Being here after not visiting for a few months has made me hyper-aware of how fast the Samster is growing. Seeing him through grandparents' eyes has me suddenly more conscious of the fact that my little guy is a baby no longer. And this has me searching for the pause button and a large bar of chocolate.

I'd been somewhat aware that a growth spurt had taken place, because overnight his little belly was hanging out of his shirts and his toes were pushing at the end of his Converse. He's been saying things like, " I want to tell you something" and "Let me tell you a story" and "I not pooping right now. Are you pooping right now?" (Conversation perfect for dinner parties). He can say his full name. He can use my touch screen phone. He can "help" me cook. He helps pick out his clothes. He sings the ABC's and "Little Bunny Foo Foo" and "Jesus Loves Me." It's all so good. But, I'm starting to understand why parents say dumb stuff about kids growing up too fast and other ridiculously sentimental things that I'm saying with regularity these days.

 

The little years instigate such a dichotomy of emotions. In the midst of wanting to see your children accomplish the next developmental stage, to hear them talk, to walk, to make friends, there's also the sense that it's all going by too fast. And yet, I find myself foolishly wishing this season away sometimes. I dream about time to myself and time with friends and what it will be like when he's in school or able to keep himself busy without needing me every minute. I wonder what sort of complete thoughts I could have if I wasn't being asked for juice and graham crackers every four and a half minutes.

But, then I remember: I don't get this season back. I don't get to have him as a two year old again. Sure, that probably means I won't be using Magic Erasers on Sharpie wall murals at some point, but it also means that it won't be long before he actually doesn't want me to sing him to sleep or watch endless episodes of Curious George with him or help him find granddaddy long legs in the yard.

I realize that I'm talking about him like he's about to ask me for the keys to the car or grow a mustache. But, I think the baby stage might be officially over with this next birthday and I'm not sure I'm ready for it to be.

Sigh.

I think more pie may be necessary.

I Want A Tractor for Christmas

We went to a tractor parade, also known as The Cotton Gin Festival, a few weekends ago. I watched approximately one hundred and twenty-four shiny tractors roll down the middle of Main Street with happy farmers at the wheel, their families tucked in wooden wagons/trailers being pulled behind. We ate barbecue and funnel cakes and perused crafts made out of old Mason jars and heard gospel music and saw people playing banjos like their lives depended on it. It was quintessential Americana and I can't deny that I loved it a little bit.

I had Sam on my hip while the parade went by and I watched him as he watched those tractors with an "all my dreams are coming true" look on his face. Well, maybe that's overstating it, but he was kind of entranced. I'm pretty sure I witnessed his mind being blown by that motorcade of tractors puttering by for a half an hour. Seemingly, every farmer within fifty miles showed up to proudly ride his vintage tractor through town. They probably also came for the boiled peanuts and the handknit afghans.

Now, I kind of want a tractor. A big red one with a comfy seat and an umbrella cover to keep the sun off my delicate (read: pale), southern complexion.

I also want a lifetime supply of funnel cakes. Covered in powdered sugar, if you please.

And that was our uber southern Saturday.

Here's to tractor parades, buckets of sweet tea, Mason jar crafts, funnel cakes, and boiled peanuts.