Double Single-Digit Midgets

If you're me, this is the best kind of text you can receive:

"Kat and I are looking for a deck for vino-drinking. You around?"

Apparently, Hsin and her Jelly Roll, and Kat and her Little Ms. G, had a playdate at the park. On their respective ways to said playdate, both toddlers fell asleep in their respective strollers.

What are two moms to do? Sit there and watch the toddlers sleep? No. Emphatically no. Instead they texted their friend Ellie to see what was what. Their friend Ellie's response?:

"Yes please."

They showed up with prosecco, Mistah hit a towering blast during which the cork hit a hanging branch but was still ruled a home run* . . .

(*there was controversy)

. . . and then the children woke up. And then the real fun started.

The Boy . . .

. . . and the Girl.

They look sort of alike in their midgetness and their baldness, don't they? They're not at all alike, though. They're eight months apart which is like night and day when you're two (she) and 16 months (he). (Really, I should write a baby book).

People. Trust me. If you see this face on young Ms. G? Run.

Finally! The two single-digit-midgets interacting!

Um, or not.

They did eventually find eachother, though, and did actually put their wee peanut-brains together to conspire against the grown-ups* every chance they could.

(*I really really love being called a grown-up around young children and use it, boastfully, whenever I can.)

Actually, they totally listened to the grown-ups.*

(*not)

And then Mistah went to Sam's and came back with pretzel rods. Genius. Who doesn't love a pretzel rod? They're delicious, they go great with wine, they're perfect for dipping into homemade garden-grown-jalapeño-infused hummus, you can pretend you're smoking a cigar, and tiny kids can actually grab ahold of them, and suck the salt right of of them.

And, mothers and daughters can enjoy them together:

Oh, the mother-and-daughter pretzel rod love.

Oh, the fun we have.

And then? Well, then the Little Red Car showed up.

And when you've got a couple of wee ones between the ages of 1 and 2, well, there simply is no back yard, there is no mexican blankie, there is no bucket of goldfish or drinkie-cup of skim milk* that can compete with The Little Red Car.

(*when the kids finish their mother-brought-whole-milk we always have backup. And the kids are so thin!)

Ms. G started driving . . . but wait, you know what? Let's just roll the tape from the dialogue we secretly recorded.*

(*What?? We're the grown-ups! We get to spy on them.)

"I know, I know. It's our first time driving without the (ahem, so-called) grown-ups. Just don't worry, wouldja?"

"I know, I know. They're all nuts; we're fine."

"Don't worry, Jelly Roll. You read your little book, er, CD liner notes; I'll drive."

"Oh, no, wait! *I* want to drive!"

"Dude, you're too young, plus your diaper is showing.
Un-freaking-cool, yo."

"Allright, then, I'll just storm the driver's seat and take over.
Aw jeez . . . "

". . .  I can't get out, man."

"Ellie you're killing me here. Strapping me in with the seatbelt on your dead-end street was supposed to be ironic and fun!"

"Don't you worry, Jelly Roll - I got it.
Sit down -- we're going into turbo overdrive."

"Oh look! Peeps we know! Wave hi! 'Hi!!'"

"Allright, Ms. G. You're awesome and you're a great driver. But in eight months? When I catch up to you? Move on over: 
I'm totally taking the wheel."


"Yeah right. Talk to me in 15 years, dude."