It was supposed to be fun — just the two of us — no boys allowed.
Instead, it was painful. PAINFUL.
Apparently, a tired, moody, pregnant woman and a tired, moody teething toddler can’t have fun past seven o’clock. And if you’re both hungry, waiting on a pizza to cook . . . it is even WORSE.
I had such hope and excitement as I looked forward to our Thursday evening: Daddy would be out late; The Little Lady and I would make a delicious pizza; we would be creative and color BEEYOUTEEFUL Easter eggs.
I forgot (oh, HOW did I forget) there is a reason as to why I gleefully look forward to Daddy’s homecoming each evening: The Little Lady after 7 pm is a MUCH different Little Lady.
There were Tears. Screams. Sighs. Things were thrown. She was A Little Hyde — no longer a sweet wee little thing. I was scared.
Did I mention she’s teething?????? Thank you very much, Two Year Molars.
Then, I brought out the ingredients for the pizza, and — for a few glorious moments — all was right with the world.
The Little Lady helped me stir and flatten the dough, but her REAL job was to be in charge of the cheese (a fact of which she reminded me every time I tried to help: “MY TUHN, MOMMY,” she would yell, pushing my hand away).
Our peaceful, fun time, however, was short lived. As soon as the pizza was in the oven, the Little Lady reverted back to the screaming banshee of earlier. . . .oh, wait. I think I called her a Little Hyde, didn’t I? Well, anyway — it wasn’t a pretty sight or experience.
Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, pacified her. The wait for our pizza was horrible . . .especially since I accidentally turned the oven off when the pizza went in. AHHH!!!!!! Was NOTHING to go right during this evening?
Finally, after realizing my mistake and turning the oven back on, our dinner was ready. She was happy again . . . for a little bit.
GRRRRRRR you incoming teeth!!!!!
The Easter eggs stayed white and bedtime came early last night. Our girls’ night was definitely NOT a success but at least we both got to eat. That’s always a plus in my world.
Of course, when Daddy came home, he couldn’t understand why I was passed out on the couch . . . with pizza sauce all over me.
The look I gave him when he woke me up told him that he should drop the matter. Which, he did.
He’s a smart boy sometimes.