My parents, two of my brother’s and my sister in-law came for the weekend. Enzo attached himself firmly to this uncle and would not let go, as evident in the following photographs.
It’s different, not being the favorite. He didn’t want me to help him go potty, he wanted Uncle. He didn’t want me to brush his teeth, he wanted Uncle. He didn’t want me to tuck him in, he wanted Uncle. On Saturday night when his uncle was otherwise occupied, He consented to let Grandma tuck him in.
Thanks to Family Fun Magazine for the tip about using whisks to hold the eggs.
I’ve never seen two and a half dozen eggs colored faster.
They were dipping eggs at lightning speed. the whole shebang was done and cleaned up in about fifteen minutes.
The Easter Bunny brought “gobbles”
Don’t they look comfy? She’s been longing for a pair of gobbles for the past two summers.
This one sat like this, hair in the eyes, face in the bucket for over an hour. That is apparently how long it takes an 18 month old to eat a handful of m&m’s, a reeses egg and a cereal bar.
Now, remember the outfit Enzo had on in the first photo? The too small black t-shirt and the too small brown sweat pants?
Add in some fly-away hair(think Alfalfa only wispier) and feet smudged with black trampoline dirt and you’ll have an idea of the state Enzo was in when this next story took place.
For Zizza imagine a brown t-shirt patterned with large abstract butterflies paired with very short white pink and baby blue small scale plaid shorts. She also sported trampoline smudges on her feet, but blessedly I managed to comb her hair that day.
On Friday with my children thus attired we headed out for lunch. I figured we’d go in to the restaurant, get our food and then they would spent their time running about under the olive trees while we all ate, and then we’d walk through the nursery in the back, look at the pretty plants and go home. For this kind of an afternoon outing I figured ragamuffin self-dressed children were perfectly acceptable so I didn’t bother prying Enzo off his uncle to go put on clothes that fit and matched.
We met my mother’s Uncle and Aunt at the Restaurant. They’d arrived sooner than we had and reported that it was quite full, so why didn’t we go on to their clubhouse and they’d treat us to lunch there?
Clubhouse? I thought. What does one wear to a clubhouse? I was pretty sure mismatched ill-fitting lounge wear, dirty feet and wrong footed flip flops didn’t fit within clubhouse wardrobe guidelines, but what was I to do?
My little ragamuffins sat at the long elegant table and ate special ordered noodles (no kid’s menu at the clubhouse) with napkins tied ’round their necks while I thanked my lucky stars that there were only two other parties dinning on the lanai to witness the state in which I’d brought them to the establishment.
The food was divine, (I had a caprese sandwich and the most heavenly sweet potato fries I’ve ever encountered) the view of the golf course was breathtaking, and the table hid from my view the attire of my children. As long as I didn’t look directly at the stand-up wisp of hair on the top of Enzo’s head I found I could enjoy myself.
I was ever so glad that Moo and myself were both respectably dressed, and mark my words: When Uncle Duke and Aunt Wanda came on Sunday for Easter dinner, Zizza and Enz were dressed in attractive, well fitting clothes.
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