Priceless

Today, I take a moment to tell you what I find particularly priceless.

My husband attempting to like Tofutti sour cream. Can you tell he's got an open mind? (insert sarcasm reader here) Immediately after his lip-smacking, spitting face, he scratched a big "F" into the remainder of the tub and marched it to the trash, saying, "the 'better than' should be printed in larger letters so no one will be tricked again!" Since I don't like sour cream to begin with, I cannot be an impartial judge, but my suspicion is, he's being a curmudgeon. On a side note, the meatless Mexican lasagna was ah-maa-zing. Seriously. A huge crock pot size meal and there was zero leftovers between a family of three. That should tell you something. A word of warning though: cauliflower cooking all day smells, in my opinion, like pee. There was a lot of scented candle burning going on.

And, this is what is now the second example of why I shouldn't be allowed to go to the grocery store. I make no secret of the fact that I hate, hate, hate grocery shopping and won't do it at the commissary, at all, ever. I pretty much refuse to do it otherwise as well, but it's been a unique week. Well, honestly, who wants fat-free cheese? And fat-free feta? Why bother? The fat is the reason for cheese! I know every ladies magazine out there will tell you, "oh, save X number of calories, blahdy-blah-blah-blah." Or, just eat it and be happy and don't eat six pounds of it and/or try not to sit on your behind all day. It all works out. My ounce of common sense for you, just because you know what? Fat-free feta does not taste the same, no matter what Glamour says. And they shouldn't put it right next to the good stuff for fools like me to pick up accidentally.

On a happier note. "Mommy, this is a beautiful flower. It is for you because I love you and you are my Valentine." Thankfully, he didn't add, "and now we are married," something he's been doing of late. That's pretty priceless, I think.

Also priceless, one more run in the shoes that I think were forged in hell. As you know, I'm not one to pass up the most expensive thing in the store. These were, in fact, the most expensive shoes in the running shop. As I have been buying running shoes since I was sixteen, I kind of thought I knew what I was doing and I kind of know how to take the advice of the pimply track runners who dole it out. Anyway, they didn't sell my preferred brand of the moment and in all my years pounding my poor body down, I had never worn New Balance and when they recommended them and they felt oh so nice, I thought eh, why not? Well, two lost toenails and now this fluid on my ankle joint later, my body says why not: because they suck for me. I'm getting new shoes this weekend. Oh and the loopy tag on the shoe, I'm too lazy to untie my shoes and clip of my race bar code from the marathon that ensures I didn't cheat. I didn't. Not even a little. Which makes me wonder? Who would cheat? I mean, who signs up for something like that, pays their $90, then hides out somewhere along the course and then sneaks across the finish line and pretends to have run the whole thing just to get the t-shirt and lie to all their friends about running a race? That would be more than weird, don't you think? In case I'm not making sense, it's a little sensor on your shoe that pings your foot on little sensors around the course that measures not only your mileage split times but also ensures that your foot crosses certain points of the race, so that say, you don't just cross the start and the finish, but also key points of the race.

Which leads me to why it is okay to eat the entire first row of cookies that Rob and Mary (in-laws/Bryon's Dad and step-mom) sent for Valentine's Day before I even read the card. That is pretty priceless, as well. They could've been toxic death cookies sent by an enemy as a trick, all I saw was chewy cookies and I thought, "hey, I ran 13.1 miles 4 DAYS AGO, I'm still entitled to eat whatever I want, right? RIGHT!!??" So, I did. Yeah, to stop that attitude, I froze 2/3 of the box before bed last night. Also priceless was the card said, "Congratulations and Happy Valentine's Day." I think the pinnacle of irony is that hooray for you, you crazy runners! Have forty dozen cookies! Kidding, I love you guys and I love those cookies. Keep 'em coming.

I went to Collin's first Valentine's Day party at school yesterday too. There is nothing more priceless than little kids exchanging love notes. Except the aftermath of said party. Junk. Well, and the one mother that makes the rest of us look bad. Who has time to hand make felt puppets and then glue on a little tail and sign their kid's name as the tag? Totally cute but Collin handed out punch out Star Wars Valentines. I thought the hologram was cool. I am not a felt woven-craft mom. Jeesh. The little girl is totally sweet though and her mom, who I met, is wonderful. So, I say nothing mean, just...jeesh. I took one look at the foam craft kits even and went, ugh. I'm so glad I have a boy. Star Wars punch outs all the way, baby.

Remember how much I loved Collin's long hair? How I couldn't bear to part with it. Well, that love is coming back; with a vengeance. It's been a while and check it out. It's not going anywhere. Collin is expressing his desire for a haircut. I tell him the following: when you are old enough to make your own decisions stick, come talk to me. Priceless, in my book, the ability to wield ultimate parental power of a decision that is purely selfish, the desire to run my hands around in my baby's locks, and for him to look like this in the morning.

And, if I haven't said enough today, a priceless thing that I can't give you a picture of.

A conversation between Collin and I before nap, when he likes to hear about being in my belly:

Mommy: When you grew in my belly you started off smaller than rice!

Collin: Then what?

Mommy: Then you grew to the size of a lemon!

Collin: Then what?

Mommy: Then you grew to the size of a basketball!

Collin: (reaching to my breasts, taking one in each hand) Are these basketballs?

Mommy: (I wish)