There is only one good day a week anymore when I feel like completely splurging on something decadent, divine, and deadly: dessert. And I’m not talking about settling for a shrink wrapped cookie that you could pick up the gas station. Like old school dessert. You know, warm brownie, doused in fudge, topped with vanilla ice cream that’s already melting into a gooey puddle around the crusty edges of brownie.
Or at least something to that equivalent.
And lucky for me, with four little boys in tow, I didn’t have to ask twice if anyone would like to join me. We scooted off like…oh I don’t know what we scooted off like, but we scooted.
And since there was a street faire in our way, we meandered about and shopped a little, both for silly things and recommendations on a spot where we could find said dessert. The kids were hamming it up.
I learned, that with a promise of yummy melty chocolately things, they would smile when I asked and actually look directly at me.
There was one, however, who got a little too comfortable on that warm, cozy walk to find a sweet treat.
His eyes started rolling around pretty soon after Daddy’s feet stepped on pavement, and he gave up the good fight for a while.
While he snoozed, big bro picked out a loud loud loud red-white-and-blue-swirly-tie-dye shirt from a dude’s booth named, “Dye-namic,” or, “Dye-namite,” or some such catchy thing. He had so many colors swirling around that I had to make his pic in black-and-white, lest it assault your eyes and you go blind for three days straight, what with the orange tie-dye hat in one hand, tie-dye shirt in the other, and camo shorts on with bright yellow flip flops. Wowza.
At long last, we found a place still open that would serve us ooey-gooey-sweet-things and begged for a table. The little ones were just starting to glaze over at this point.
Well. All of them except this one crazy cat.
It took fooooooorrrrrrreeeeeevvvvvveeeeeerrrrr for them to find the recipe, go to the store and pick up the ingredients, mix together, and then bake our scrumptious buffet of apple pie and ice cream and brownies and ice cream and fudge sauce and ice cream, so in the meantime, we amused ourselves.
Aawww. The sweet pic is way better than our silly pic.
And hey. When the desserts came ’round, there was no time to be wasted taking pics. Ewan was awake by then and I had to fight him with a sharp fork to get my fair share of the dessert we split. That little dude can shovel in a brownie in two seconds flat.
Takes after his Momma.
Satisfied with our sugar high, we jetted outta there before the coma hit. We had a lot of blocks to walk back to the condo and wanted to make sure that the five-year-olds walked the whole way back.
Holden said “walking schmalking” and instead twirled like a hippie chick that whole way back.
Ewan practiced walking a straight line. Well two straight lines. Which worked out well, since he seems to be a little wide stanced in the walking area.
And then he got away.
Holden tried like crazy to catch him and bring him to me.
But he was pretty much just a blur.
Until he stopped.
He’d never seen hula hooping before.
It was all over for him then. Which brings me to the name of this post. When Holden was about three, he came home from preschool talking about “wooda whoops.” For the life of us, we could not figure out what on Earth he was talking about.
This caused him to say it louder and louder, until he was pretty yelling it at us every day.
And then one glorious day, someone was hula hooping, and Holden yelled, “See! “Wooda whoops!”
It was a happy, happy day – and the end of the mystery.
But Ewan, he had no words. Just a full on hypnotic stare. His state was so comatose that I was able to scoop him up and run through the crowd, which happened to part like the Red Sea because after all, who would mess with a crazy Momma with a baby on her hip and a big ol’ camera in her free hand yelling that she just had to get a picture of Booker T because he was her favorite and she didn’t know he would be playing in Frisco on her mini-vacation and could you please move for just a minute. Pleeeease.
And here’s the pic.
It’s just to prove that I was there. Well. Ewan and I were there. For without him, I would never have been able to get that close.
Ewan did smell a bit of patchouly and funny cigarettes when we emerged, but I whisked him into the tub and fresh jammies within 15 minutes of this capture.
And that is all, because Hank is staring at me asking when I’ll be finished with this post. Good night all.