On Saturday mornings, Nick and I usually sleep late, take our time waking up, and enjoy leisurely breakfasts in bed.
Ok, that’s a lie. Our Saturday mornings look like this:
We joked about how funny it would be if we threw caution to the wind and went out for brunch with the girls in tow. I’m not sure who gave the other the “I’m kidding–wait–am I kidding? Are you kidding? Maybe I’m not kidding” look first, but we decided to ask the girls what they thought.
Twenty minutes later, we were loaded into the car, babes passed out in their buckets, half in our pajamas, wild-eyed with the thought of Hot Plate’s pumpkin buckwheat waffles dancing in our heads. We took the responsible route and called ahead (i.e. from the car, like a block away) to ensure we wouldn’t have to wait in their tiny foyer, surrounded by what was sure to be rampant respiratory illness. We rushed the girls to a booth, hovering over their bodies as if we were running through a land mine popping with explosives, with the added protection of their bundle me’s over their faces. Restaurant booths always look so big…until you try to wedge 2 carseats into them. It wasn’t happening. As we tried to body slam their seats onto opposite sides of the booth, the waitress looking concerned (“no really–we’re fine–this is great–JUSTBRINGUSSOMEEFFINGPUMPKINWAFFLESKTHANKS”), a 2 year old with large, cartoon-like, green bacteria crawling all over her nose and hands leaned over from the booth behind us and started to ogle the girls and blow raspberries at them, a fine shower of saliva slowly misting down on their faces. Ok, it might have not happened exactly like that, but we both started to feel a huge wave of parent-guilt for potentially exposing the girls to godknowswhat, all in the name of pumpkin waffles (but they’re sooo good). Luckily, just in the nick of time, a larger booth opened up (out of 2 year old sneeze-range) and we jumped on it. Here we are in all of our unshowered glory, being total rebels in the Great Dirty Public.
Just to be safe, we came home and gave them both baths.
You can look as close as you want, but none of those appendages are Nick’s goods. I promise. Then we thought we’d just make sure our swim suits fit. I mean, summer has GOTTA be just around the corner, right?
Leslie and Paul, don’t ever leave Nick in charge of more than 2 babies. Sorry, Alex.
We knew it had been an overstimulating day when they both fell asleep…like this:
Some other random pics:
Most of you have already seen this by now (along with several members of the clergy we never intended it to reach–thanks dad–OMG). And now Grandma W is lobbying for us to post it ON THE POPE’S FACEBOOK PAGE. Out of respect for the catholic church (and in fear we might end up on Dateline), we’ll probably just keep it right here, tucked safely into our private facebook pages, and now our blog.
For the second time on the internet, we present, A Pair of Pooping Popes.
25-year-old Nora and Bryn–here’s the back story. A new pope was elected in 2013 and he was from Argentina. On the day it was decided he was to be the new pope, you both just happened to have your Argentina onesies from Cousins Nate & Cathy on! Crazy! Mom needed an excuse to skip day 3 of Insanity on account of her hamstrings being broken, so she threw together some very ornate pope hats and got out the camera to document this day in history. You’re welcome.