Memorable moments in the Mommydom.

There we are, in the bathroom at Walmart, waiting for Arielle to use the facilities, when someone walks into the stall next to ours. (We were in the handicapped stall. I know I shouldn't, but there just isn't room for the three of us in any of the other stalls.) Gabrielle is curious, so she goes down on her hands and knees and sticks her head under the partition to see who's there.

So bad, in so many ways. At least they have good sinks and soap dispensers in that bathroom.

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Another bathroom story: I forget to lock the door and while I am engaged Arielle runs in, wearing her blue Cinderella dress.

"Mommy, I'm late for the ball!" She pulls back her sleeve and shows me her slender (bare) wrist. "See? I'm late!"

She runs out, chanting like the White Rabbit, "I'm late, I'm late. I'm late, I'm late."

Naturally, she leaves the door open.

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Gabrielle has gotten hold of a purple ribbon that came wrapped around a present of some kind. It's satin on the edges and mesh in the middle. She keeps pushing it at me, with accompanying gestures, until I understand that she wants it tied around her head, covering her eyes like a mask.

Is she already playing superhero?

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Michael collapses into the front seat when I pick him up from work. He had to scrub the floors, on his hands and knees, no less. He doesn't say why.

It's hard enough to get him to mop up his dog's puddles. I can't imagine asking him to scrub the kitchen floor on hands and knees.

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I leave a late afternoon playdate for the girls and head straight home to pick up Michael, so he can get to work on time. On the way I call the husband and let him know we won't be home until after him. Dinner is in the crockpot; could he just put on some water to boil and start the egg noodles before I get home?

I pull back into our driveway with tired and whiny children, who don't want Mommy's dinner. They want hamburgers. And toys. (After all, what's more important, food or fun? And if you can't answer that, you don't remember what it's like to be that small.) Inside, I find the husband standing over a pot of boiling water, ready to put the noodles in. Just one slight problem. He's trying to cook a pound of egg noodles in a one quart sauce pan.

Ah, well. I didn't marry him for his cooking skills.