This is pretty much how our Sunday evenings go.

So much for “wearing them out” and letting them “get their ya yas out” at the park. This was all canceled out by letting the girls watch Camp Rock tonight on the Disney Channel.

As you can see, Miss A was exhausted at 9 o’clock and ready to curl up and go to sleep. I just wish I’d had a video camera out for the headbanging that ensued during the closing scene of the movie. Now that was classic.

So remember…Camp Rock at bedtime is the equivalent of mental speed for a 3 and 6-year-old girl.

The adventure begins.

Cooling off.

Six-year-old bluff warrior, proudly sporting handmade paper headband decorated with leaves (that you can’t see in this photo, but which she lovingly chose.)

And I worried, foolishly, that she’d be bored this summer, with no school or summer camp. Such a silly mother am I. Don’t I recall having the wide expanse of summer with no Leapster, no Barbie.com, no Tivo, no Target within 10 miles? Daddy Thursdays are rocking the summer of 2008. I’m a little jealous of their weekly adventures, but I know this is father/daughter bonding at its best.

And yes, she does this pose thing completely on her own.

Guess who swam underwater at the pool this weekend without the aid of floaties?

I’m really proud of Miss C. When we were in Florida just last month she hesitated to even jump in the pool with her floaties on and insisted that the hubby or I stay close by constantly.

I’d love to say she inherited her swimming ability from me, but I’m not a very good swimmer. The hubby, however, used to lifeguard at our little hometown country club pool in the late 80s.

And now, some great moments in Miss C’s road to floaty freedom.

Summer 2003

Miss C navigating the chlorinated waters in her posh, super deluxe, pimped out baby float, the S.S. Sippycup, with daddy ’s help.

Summer 2007

 Miss C taking swimming lessons at the YMCA while mommy tries to observe casually from the sidelines and take a few photos without crossing the line and becoming one of those obnoxious overzealous scrapbooking mothers.

Speaking of scrapbooking (I occasionally sit down and work on digital scrapbook pages for the girls), guess who didn’t have a camera to record yesterday’s momentous occasion?

We survived Miss C’s weekend of partying and I came out on the other side of the weekend fairly unscathed, having only stepped on one of 249 plastic microscopic toys now residing at our house.

I jumped on the Achy Breaky Daddy Billy Ray Bandwagon and made Hannah Montana theme invitations for her junior So You Think You Can Dance fiesta. Why I felt the need to encourage my girls to sing the two Hannah Montana songs they know over and over and over again at the top of their lungs for the past few weeks, I don’t know. Actually the girls don’t even know the actual words to the songs, but just the hook of each song. Oh yes it’s adorable the first 25 times Miss A belts out “You’ve got the best of both wields” on the way to the grocery store. Miss A throws us off constantly with her New England accent.

I used my mad photo manipulatressing skills and plopped Miss C’s head on Hannah Montana’s body for the invitations. This was a big hit, let me tell you, with parents and kids alike, although my mother e-mailed it to some friends and I think one of the elderly ladies actually thought it really was Miss C.

As six-year-old girls are all over the girly girl chart, the actual cake and decorations were not Hannah Montana, but Tinkerbelle, and the party hats were princess theme. We had the party at a local dance studio, and the girls learned some slick dance moves to “Pumpin’ Up the Party,” otherwise known as “The Song Permanently Etched In My Brain.”

I learned a few things that I will categorize under “Birthday Parties For Six-Year-Olds For Dummies:”

Never bring one flavor of Capri Suns to serve at a party. I naively assumed that lemonade would be the international choice for the 5 to 7-year-old age range, but I was wrong and two girls looked at me as if I was offering them hot V8 juice from a rusty can. They ended up drinking tap water from Lion King Dixie cups. Seems like they were on the losing end for not wanting to be thrill seekers. Come on girls, live it up!

Balloons are great ice breakers. Just make sure that there is one for every girl, or tears will be shed.

You can use a beach bag as a gift bag and the parent’s of the birthday child will love your creativity. We really needed another beach bag, too.

Be prepared for girls to ask you for seconds of everything, including the hats, drinks, cake, and goody bags.

The chicken dance and electric slide are guaranteed to get every child on their feet, while the adults reminisce about the last time they drank too much champagne at a wedding reception.

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly Me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I’m as clever as clever.
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.

-A. A. Milne

Happy Sixth Birthday Miss C!

For more Miss C pictures than you can shake a stick at, visit my Flickr set. (Yes I’ve gone hog wild with photos…you can even see a hugely pregnant me.)

Monday mornings hit me in the face like a whiff of ripe garbage. I don’t do Mondays, particularly Monday mornings, very well. I am a bit of a control freak, so I don’t like the tendency for Monday to get railroaded by a million distractions. Much of this is my own undisciplined bordering on adult ADD fault as I get distracted by things like my laptop whispering sweet nothings to me and asking me to turn it on.

This Monday was particularly painful, as it was the Monday after our wonderful Florida vacation. I tried my best to make sure everything was organized and planned for when I went to bed Sunday as it was also the first Monday of summer vacation for Miss C. No school, however, does not equate “no plan.” Miss C is spending the day with my mom on Mondays and Wednedays this summer and I need to leave the house by 7:30 in order to get to work by 8:15. The hubby is taking Miss A to daycare on his way to work. The dogs are lounging in the back yard and wondering when we’re going to have steak for dinner again.

I had coffee ready, mugs out, outfits chosen, lunch made, and my purse and work bag on the kitchen table. I was rushing out the door with Miss C to meet my mom at the WalMart parking lot (the international meet-up place of the South), when Miss A emerged from her room, barefoot and wearing her mint green monkey nightgown. Hubby walked down the hall, stopped, and said, “What is that all over her rug?”

Sh*t.

And I mean literally, sh*t.

And then under my breath I said, “sh*t.”

Once again motherhood had dragged me into the ring of reality and given me a righteous slapping with the “you think you’re so smart” glove.

Miss A had gone potty in the night and decided to take off her soiled PullUp and shake it out on her rug. Has she ever done this in her entire 39 months on Earth? Um, no.

I started to really scold Miss A as I was furious, but saw her face drop. I knew that she was truly sorry. I quickly picked up the solid matter with toilet paper, flushed it, sprayed the spots with cleaner, washed my hands, and headed out the door with Miss C. Thankfully traffic was non-existent since school is out for the summer, and I managed to make it to work on time despite the delay.

Later that day, after dinner, I noticed a peculiar dark brown dollop on the carpet in the den. The girls had eaten chocolate pudding. Could it be pudding? Could it be something else? Why yes of course it was something else. Apparently Jack, our dog, had had an accident.

Sh*t!