Rectangles are not squares

Every parent thinks his or her child is a super genius, but we all know this just isn't true. We can't help it. We're parents. It's our job to think our kids are the best and smartest at everything.

But I would be lying if I didn't admit that Kassidy is one super smart cookie.

Why can I be so sure?

Because only my poor daughter has ultra-perfectionist parents. Yep, even Brady is way more of a super smart perfectionist than he appeared to be in high school. He tells me that was all an act.

So when my students would gripe that I was a hard teacher, I would tell them to be glad I wasn't their Mom.

Because Kassidy, well poor Kassidy has been taught that roosters and chickens are different animals that make different sounds, that a goat and a sheep say different things, and that light green is actually different from green. And light urple is just funny.

But my absolute favorite is what her perfectionist Daddy taught her. That a rectangle is not a square, and an oval is not a circle. And to our amazement, Kassidy actually knows all this.

Amazing.

My recently turned 2-year-old counts to 10, knows most of her ABCs, knows about 50 animals and their sounds, knows at least 10 colors, points out all body parts, knows about 10 shapes and symbols, understands opposites, gives Massey commands, and picks up and sings almost any song she hears (her current favorite is a nice little tune by Mumford and Sons).

I think this genius child is the result of a game we've developed where we draw chalk shapes and symbols on the back porch of the barn, call out a shape, and have her step from one to the other, stopping also to point out color, sound or any other interesting tidbits.

I have to think that we're on to something.

Next up - rhombus.

Mother/daughter shopping trip

Last week I loaded my munchkin in the truck and headed to town for the day. 

I was seeing what it felt like to be a stay-at-home mommy and getting out of Brady's hair so that he could do manly things like weed eat and round up fence lines.

Double win.

I also wanted the chance to stop in and visit one of my favorite Aggie professors who would be in Namibia for a month by week's end.

So like every other trip into town, I packed quickly and efficiently for the 35-40 minute drive, knowing I'd be away from the house for 5-6 hours or so.

Diapers. Check. Milk. Check. Extra clothes. Nah. Kassidy stays fairly clean nowadays.

Boy was I wrong.

I forgot that trying to park on campus was harder than giving birth. And I should know.

After circling around West campus and completing a handful of U-turns, I heard the gag from the backseat.

Stupid sugary fruit loops for breakfast.

No problem. I've cleaned a gross child before.

But usually I have a change of cloths. Super Mom fail.

I do the best I can with a handful of wipes, show off my adorable and very stinky child to an office of professors, and quickly haul butt to Freebirds for lunch, where my still adorable and very stinky child decides she's upset she can't unwrap her burrito all by herself, so she proceeds to fling it across the restaurant, only to remain upset because she still wanted to eat her burrito.

So I did the only rational thing I could do; I scooped the refried beans and cheese back in the tortilla and handed it back to Miss Tantrum. I'm sure she's eaten worse in her lifetime.

And once we were finished, I treated Kassidy to a new $9 outfit at Old Navy. Because when you forget to pack extra clothes for a trip into town and your child pukes on herself, your only option is to go on an impromptu shopping trip.

But what really amazed me was when we finally got home and Brady took a double take at his daughter and asked, "Is that a new outfit you bought Kassidy?"

Who says men don't notice things? Mine usually doesn't, but for whatever reason he has a keen eye for new additions to Kassidy's wardrobe.

So then I had to tell him the story.

And then he had to rub in the fact that I should've packed extra clothes.

Awwww Man

Ever since Kassidy could hold her head up, we've tried establishing our bedtime routine.

It goes something like this:

Bath time

Chase naked baby around the house time

PJ time

Comb out tangles time

Mommy/daughter snuggle time

Milk time

Story time

Prayer time

Good night kisses time

And finally off to bed time!

And from the beginning, after we finish reading our book, we fold Kassidy's hands, bow our heads, and say our good-night prayer together as a family, ending with a very loud, and very proud, A-men.

And Kassidy's favorite part is the very loud, very drawn-out A-men.

Until the other night, when she enthusiastically waved her folded hands out in front of her, scrunched her little nose, and very loudly and proudly said

Awwww Man.

Sorry God, that's just Kassidy.

The same Kassidy that also likes to run away from her Mommy after bath time so she can cook in the nude.

I live with a leprechaun

So this post is for my new friend Bill. Bill stumbled upon my blog just the other day, started reading, and stayed hooked on my awesome humor for about an hour.

And then he told me this.

Kudos to how you and your husband get the most out of every moment.

And Bill's right. No matter how crazy or stressful our lives may get, finding joy in the small things and making those simple moments a memory to last a lifetime is a blessing. 

And Bill telling me this reminded me that I missed blogging (the past few months have been hectic to say the least). Because my blog is a reminder of how I want to live every moment of my life. And how even the smallest moments may be ones you'll never want to forget.

So thank you Bill for reminding me this.

So after more than four months on hiatus, I'll leave you with this.

I live with a leprechaun.

You know how every time you dry a load of socks, and there always seems to be one lonely sock left at the end, and we blame it on the damn leprechauns?

I found the leprechaun. She's about 31 inches tall, blonde hair and full of personality.

Because while on a hunt for my missing bra, I found these instead.

My missing flip flops.

Unfortunately, my bra is still MIA.

I blame the leprechaun.