How 'Bout Them Kicks.

So.

We were settling in for a quick lunch after church with some friends. We were two families merged into one, managing multiple children, diaper bags, high chairs, bibs, and preferences. As Robb was handling Tuck, who was dangerously near an all-out-tantrum, I heard a man say, "Well, those are some good looking kids you have there. Do you pay extra for such cute ones?"

I look up, and there is a very kind, friendly, and well-dressed man in his fifties, shaking hands with my husband. My bewildered husband, I might add, who is not at all sure how to answer that question. Instead, he smiled and said, "Hi, I'm Robb."

"And I'm Steve. Would you mind if I ask your beautiful wife or girlfriend a question?"

And suddenly I was involved, since I was the 'beautiful wife or girlfriend.' I looked more closely at Steve, just sure I must know this person who is so boldly entering my family's space. Nothing. No recall of this face at all. Robb granted permission, and Steve turned his conversation to me.

"Hello, ma'am. You are quite lovely."

"Well, thank you." Who is this guy?? Not that I am opposed to such affirmation...

"I was just wondering... where might my daughter get a pair of those shoes you are wearing? Red, strappy sandals. Just her style. I would love to know."

My shoes? He wants to know about my shoes?

"Well, a friend gave them to me, actually."

"A friend gave them to you? For free? Well, she sure must love you!"

"Yes, I think she does."

"So, you don't know where she got them?"

"Well, no, but I do believe I could find out."

(Meanwhile, Robb is now nearly wrestling with Tucker, who has tumbled over the precipice into all-out-meltdown. Tyler is nearly invisible in his compliance. Thank you, Lord.)

Steve, my new friend, now glances at the table to see the rest of our crew, the family who is an extension of ours.

"Are these all your children?"

"No, just these two." I pointed.

"Well, this is the first time we've come here on a Sunday, and I'll tell you what, we'll come again just for the entertainment. All these young families with small children - it is something to watch, I'll tell ya. And what do you do?"

"What do I do? Oh, I'm a mom and a teacher."

"Now, you see, I just knew it. I knew you were a teacher..."

He went on to tell me about his wife, mother, sister, and daughter, all of whom are teachers and have well-equipped him to spot one a mile away. Which leads me to wonder how long he has been spying on me. And my shoes.

"Now, seriously. About those shoes. I'd love to know. May I call you?"

Call? That's a little on the personal side, Mr. Strappy Sandals. "Do you do email?"

"Oh, sure! Let's email. I'd just love to know where she can find those."

And so we exchanged email, Steve and me. He joined his crew of teachers in the family who were heading out the door, and I commenced with my own family of hungry meltdowns in the making. And we all raised our eyebrows at one another, since that is really a conversation I have never quite had. Ever.

No word from him yet, and although I found out that the sassy shoes (which are often a conversation piece, truly) are from Ross, I haven't yet drafted my email to tell him so.

You just never know, people. You never do.

Twins?

When we picked the boys up from their Sunday School class of fellow Twos and Threes, the teacher said, "Are they twins?"

Twins?? Those two?

"Um, no. They're 19 months apart."

"I thought they were, but when I asked how old they are, they both said three."

I smiled. "Well, Tyler is wrong."

(Seriously? Perhaps this last belated birthday party really did deceive him into thinking he's three. Clearly, he's telling the world.)

Where?

Happy Bir$%#th&@day, Tyler.

No, that's not me cussing. Although I could have.

We celebrated Tyler's birthday tonight, one more time. Busy calendars kept us from partying with Robb's side of the family, and since I am personally all about s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g out the birthday celebration, today was one more opportunity to blow out some candles and open some presents.

Since it has indeed been a while since he turned two officially, Tucker said, "It's Tyler's birthday again? Oh, Tyler, happy birthday! You're three now!" Not quite. He's just two. Again.

I once professed my love for all things with decorative frosting, and while I still covet the abilities of my faves on the Food Network, my need to personally decorate my children's birthday cakes is a hobby of my past. In the end, it takes like nine hours for someone of my novice status, and that's just too long for anything at all in this season of my life. I'd rather spring the twenty bucks and let someone else have the cramped hands and the frosting stains at the end of the day.

Plus, there's just nothing wrong with some old school DQ.

(Tyler carefully chose this cake from the freezer showcase. With my power of persuasive influence, I led him carefully away from the cake with a giant ladybug - too girly - or a combination of hearts and skulls - too weird.)

When the moment of grandeur arrived, I assumed my performance as combined Mommy and Hostess Extraordinaire. My sister-in-law assumed her role as photographer, and for that I will be forever thankful for the following documented play-by-play.

Drum roll, please.... (feel free to sing along..)

Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you!

Happy Birthday, dear Tyler, Happy Birthday to you!

And then Tucker wanted to pluck a candle and suck off the frosting.

(Who could blame him?)

And then Tyler wanted to do the same with the second and last candle on the cake.

And I am all about sibling fairness and equality whenever possible.

But then, I watched Tyler putting the smoking wick into his mouth, instead of the frosted end of the candle.

I lurched to help him...

...and I dropped the cake.

Leave it to me.

Every good mother has to do it once, so I'm told.

Suddenly, the act of serving this cake became a team effort.

Break out the pancake spatula.

(May I just say, in this very moment, I was most thankful I had not indeed invested the nine hours to make this cake. I would have done something terribly memorable, I'm sure.)

And so, the title of this blog post is not me cussing.

It is representative of the top of the cake, after The Fall.

Tyler was incredulous.

My cake? What did you do to my cake?

It's written all over his face.

Thankfully, smashed cake is delicious.

Perhaps more so.