1. Game after game of “Piggy Toes” (This Little Piggy)
I used to play this game all the time with my older kids, but Anthony never held still long enough after a diaper change to introduce him to it. Well, the other day I finally caught him, and you should have heard the squeals. It’s his new favorite post-diaper-change activity. His former favorite was the rocket jump, where we count to three and I lift him as he jumps into the air. (I prefer the foot game, to be honest. The rocket jump was quite a workout for my biceps.)
When I did Piggy Toes on Anthony this afternoon, three heads swiveled in my direction in perfect synchronization. (You’d have thought it was choreographed.) One pair of eyes was gleeful, while the other two were narrowed in suspicion. “Mom,” they accused, “you never did Piggy Toes on US!” (To which I wanted to reply, “Oh yeah? Piggy THIS!” But I refrained. Because, you know, I’m supposed to be the “mature” one.)
I spent at least a half hour giving four kids Piggy Toes. Every time I’d “wee wee wee” one foot, another dirty one was in thrust in my face. We giggled and squirmed and laughed and hyperventilated (Alex) until Mom was piggied out and left to wash her hands and start dinner.
Whoever said, “Everything old is new again” must have been a mother with young children.
One who found herself playing silly baby games with school-aged children that she ACTUALLY DID play with them when they were actually babies.
2. A review of dinner: two thumbs and all ten piggy toes DOWN.
I made French Toast, which was supposed to be this morning’s breakfast, but things got hectic and, well, who doesn’t love a hearty bowl of Trix in the morning?
I make gooooood French toast. My mom taught me how to do it, and it’s a throw-together kind of recipe that I’ve tweaked over the years. I don’t make it very often because my family of six goes through a loaf of bread every time I make sandwiches for lunch, but occasionally I save a drier loaf of bread, or the crusts that no one will eat, and freeze them to make French toast one day in the future.
All day long, my kids declared their joy at tonight’s dinner menu. Every single one of them would hold their clasped fists by their cheek (think Disney princess) and declare, “I LOVE French toast!” or “I’m so excited for dinner tonight!” Imagine my surprise when I put Hannah’s plate in front of her and she wrinkled up her nose and nearly fell out of her chair trying to distance herself from the monstrosity (WHAT THE HECK?) I was trying to poison her with. (Again I ask, “WHAT THE HECK?”)
“No, Mom,” she sobbed. “This isn’t French toast. I want what you made last time.”
“Hannah, darling,” I soothed. “What do you mean? Have I made a mistake somehow? This is the same French Toast I always make!” Hug, kiss, hug, dry tears, hug, hug.
(Okay, that last paragraph was a total lie. Bad Kemi! What it really sounded like was, “Hannah, that’s enough. Knock it off right now. What are you freaking out about? That is the VERY SAME French toast I made before. It’s what I always make. I am losing patience. Quit crying and start eating it. NOW!!!”)
To which she replied, “No, Mommy, when you made French toast before, you made it the other way. Not with bread! *sneer* I don’t like French toast with bread!”
And that is how Reeses the Chihuahua/Fox Terrier mix came to eat French Toast for dinner, while Hannah went hungry.