Summer weekending

I’m intrigued by the word “weekending”. Like it’s a verb. Like it’s a rich person’s verb.

“What are you up to this weekend, Genine?”

“Oh, we’re weekending at that little place in the Hamptons. You know, the usual.”

Sure Genine, we get the picture. But our weekending usually involves less waitstaff and more finding sand in our hair. We like to play outside where we can, and while Pepper is still too little to even know she’s out of the house, let alone frolic in the sandpit, Veggie Dad has taken over the role of chief playmate (hell, chief everything at the moment, he’s been forty different kinds of helpful wrangling these girls) while I sit back and get my fill of chubby baby. And chubby baby drool.

That lip. That lip strikes me to my blackened core and I want to scoop her up and kiss her face off and protect her from every bad thing in the whole world ever and oh my god, that lip. I’m upset mama, help me!

What also is hilarious and terribly adorable is watching these two sneak moments where they pretend Pepper is theirs. I can’t wait for them to hurry up and have a baby. Once he stops touring the world, that is. I’m going to be the best damn aunty there ever was!

And this one… so desperate to be grown up and want to do what the big kids are doing. Always looking for the action, if someone’s running, she’ll run too. If it’s dance time, she’s leading the pack. She shouts and giggles and throws herself totally into the moment. Wanting so badly to be older.

But she’s still so little. She’s not even two. Is it wrong to want her to stay like this?

I bet Genine’s husband isn’t as hot as mine.