On the Catwalk

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We’re visiting the grandparents this week. As I mentioned yesterday, Piper did her own packing.

After a long day’s drive, we arrived to a home cooked meal and a cozy cottage. The cousins were reunited. There were screams of delight and joyful hugs.

Then Piper climbed up on a kitchen stool next to Nana, looked her up and down, and declared, “Nana, you aren’t very fashionable.”

Nana busted out laughing. Then she explained that as a scientist who travels the world teaching about conservation she hadn’t really gotten around to fashion.

Piper listened intently. Then she said, “And Papa married you anyway?”

This from a girl who alternates her tutu daily.

More is Always More

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I sent Piper packing last night. Really. We’re traveling again, and she has strong opinions.

“Pack your favorite stuff, and I’ll be in to help you,” I directed. I’ve learned the hard way with Piper. She has to do it herself first.

After a few minutes, I came in her room to assess her progress. Tutus and more tutus. Wands. Sparkly headbands. Not a pair of underwear in sight. Bikinis. Lip gloss. More lip gloss.

Piper doesn’t pack outfits. She packs costumes.

Glamour Girl

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We’re gearing up for a week without Sissy. Sniff. Sniff. She’s going to sleep away camp in the mountains. She’s been packing her trunk for weeks. It’s great that she’s excited, right? What a brave girl, huh? Piper and I are in mourning, but we’re keeping it to ourselves. At least I am. With Sissy away doing cool camp things, that means Piper will have two doting parents all to herself. And yet.

“No one ever pays attention to me!” Piper complained yesterday. I’m sure you’re on her side, dear reader. You can tell from this blog what a deprived child poor Piper is. Sarcastic sniff.

Still, I’m a bit vulnerable these days. Proud of my growing up kid. Sad for how much I’ll miss her. Grateful to have the time with Piper alone. It’s one long emotional roller coaster ride. So I fell for the “poor Piper” bit in the worst way.

“I’m available, P. We have an hour together while Dad takes Sissy to piano. What would you like to do? I’m all yours,” I said, wiping away her fake tears.

“Paint my nails, please,” Piper begged.

“Ah, honey. Of course.  I can do that.”

“With this,” she added, pulling out an enormous box hidden behind her back.

My only logical reaction was to run screaming from the room and avert my eyes. Piper had clearly been digging through the “who the heck gives this plastic crap to a kid for their birthday?” pile. You know, the gifts you stash away for never? The one thing I forbid in this house is glitter. And there it was in four shiny tubes just waiting to embed itself in every corner of the house. I loathe glitter. It’s the devil.

“A designer nail and tattoo studio? Wow, that sounds fancy,” I managed through gritted teeth. Then I poured a drink rolled up my sleeves and said yes. Remember I was feeling vulnerable. Surely, I hadn’t paid enough attention to Piper’s “look” as the box encourages.

So, we unpacked all the tubes and glue and (gasp) glitter and set them all up in the tacky purple tray just like the front of the box instructed and got to work on our neglected “look.”

“They’re perfect!” Piper squealed. “Can we do this every day?”

It may be an even longer week without Sissy than I expected.

Nutella: Let Me Count the Ways

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Piper is enjoying what we’ll forever refer to as “The Summer of Nutella.” You know the hazelnut chocolate spread?

She wants it on everything. She likes to keep an extra smear on her chin “for later.”

“Nutella’s the perfect topping!” Piper says. “If you put it on something healthy, like oatmeal, it’s still healthy underneath. It’s magic, really.”

Piper has requested a healthy dose of Nutella on the normal stuff: toast, strawberries, crepes, each of her fingers. She’s also tried to convince me to spread it on: veggie dogs, cheese, tortilla chips, each of her fingers.

I admit that she’s even inspired me. After I put Piper to sleep last night, I pulled out a buffet of other things we hadn’t previously dipped: cheese puffs (yuck), crab chips (surprisingly not terrible), goldfish (eh), animal crackers (yum), and pita crisps (awesome).

Tonight, though, we entered true Nutella heaven. We went out for dessert to a new cafe. Piper was expecting something good, but nothing like this:

I’d tell you how good it was, but Piper wouldn’t even share a bite.

The Case of the Missing Lalaloopsy

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Alice is missing. I know. I know. It’s tough news to take. When you’ve grown as attached to a six-inch-plastic Alice and in Wonderland as we have, it breaks a Piper’s heart. As best we can discern, she went rogue somewhere between Piper’s bedroom and the front steps of our townhome. It’s a lot of ground to cover. Here is Alice in happier days. Sniff.

Lalaloopsy Mini Figure 2Pack Wacky Hatter Alice in Lalaloopsyland

We’re distraught, but we’re trying not to panic. It won’t help Alice. Keep calm and carry on. Wherever you are, Alice, we won’t rest until we find you.

Until then, the game must go on. I mean, once you’ve covered every inch of the living room space with “Lalaloopsy Land” and you’re gearing up to play the make-believe game of the century, you can’t let a thing like a missing Alice stop you. Sissy to the rescue!

I’m not saying that a one-dimensional Alice on high-quality printer paper cut down to size can take the place of the real thing. I’m saying that when a Piper is crying, desperate times call for desperate measures. Sissy solved the immediate problem, if not the case.

So, until Alice climbs out of the rabbit hole and returns to reality, we’ll be waiting. Happily.

Who Took the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?

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Who me? Couldn’t be. Then who? Piper took the cookie from the cookie jar. Are you singing along yet? Sorry ’bout that.

I caught Piper tonight between her fourth and fifth giant chocolate cookie. We were at a friend’s house and her mother-in-law made homemade treats second only to Mrs. Peterman’s. They were gooey and soft in the middle with the perfect buttery crisp edges. You know the ones. Can’t say that I blame the Piper.

Why didn’t I stop her from her chocolate chip cookie gorge? I was on the front porch stuffing down an enormous piece of strawberry rhubarb pie made by some Christian women who clearly just earned their passage through the pearly gates. Mmm.  Delicious. When I came in to refill clean up my plate, I found Piper smeared in chocolate from mouth to elbow. She smiled so big. That’s how I knew there was trouble.

“How many you had there, sweet stuff?” I asked.

“They’re small,” Piper answered, avoiding my question.

“They look big to me. Is that your second or your third?”

“How many’s a lot, Mom?” Ah. Answering a question with a question. Well played, P.

“Well,” I said, taking the current cookie contender out of her hand, “what do you think is a reasonable serving?”

“Of what?” Piper asked. Oh, please. I’m so on to you.

“Cookies, Piper. How many cookies do you think is an acceptable number?”

“Five isn’t a lot, is it? You said I could hardly buy anything with five dollars. That’s a small number.”

“Not in cookies, honey. Five cookies is too much. How many have you had?”

Piper looked at the cookie in my hand. She licked her chocolatey lips.

“Less than five,” she said. “By one. Should I switch to pie?”

Olympic Winners

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We took a little trip down Piper lane tonight. It was longer than expected. Laughter fueled our ride. A good time was had by all. If you need a blast from the short past of piperism or just a quick chuckle to get you through your Olympic viewing (let’s face it-it’s serious business), here are the top viewed piperisms of all time:

Hold On. We’re Going Gaga

Raising Star Wars Girls

Soulmates

Drunk Dialing or Something Like It

Words You Didn’t Know You Needed

There you have it. The top five. The competition was tight. They all put up a good fight. If you were the judge, what piperism would take home the gold?

 

 

Let the Games Begin!

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We sat down last night with our fried “chips” for the Opening Ceremonies and spoke in our worst British accents, of course. Piper had a lot of questions. Let’s face it. When it comes to the Olympics, we all do.

“I know what my Olympic sport would be,” Piper said.

“What?”

“Jumping.”

“Like pole vault jumping or ski jumping?” I asked.

“No. Like kitchen tile jumping. I can jump over three tiles before I smash my head into the wall. I’d totally win because I practice so much!”

At the very least, she’d metal.

A History Major in the Making

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Sometimes Piper is anti everything. It’s part of her charm. She comes by it honestly.

Last weekend on our road trip back from the beach, we stopped off in Colonial Williamsburg for lunch. As a history major, I’ve always wanted to see it: the historic buildings, actors dressed in colonial garb, carriage rides, battlefields. So cool!

“Look at that old building! Gosh that’s old!” I said.

“I hate old,” Piper responded.

“How can you hate old? All that history!”

“I hate history.”

“Oh! Look at those people dressed up as colonisits! Can you imagine living like that?”

 

“I hate colonists.”

Bah Humbug.

Reminds me of the time my family drove to Truman’s house for a tour and I refused to get out of the car. Because I was reading Truman’s biography and couldn’t stop. It made perfect sense at the time.