I cook dinner over my mom's a few times a week. In part because I want to make sure she's eating a decent meal. In part because David has been travelling a lot away from home and its nice to have adult company at dinner, and in part because I'm just too tired to pack up and THEN make dinner when I get home.
Also,Mom always agrees with whatever my crazy dinner conversation is. See? Win-win here.
At night, after dinner and clean up, Mom and my brother walk us out to the truck to say 'Good Bye.' (And probably thank the gods that we're leaving.) Now somewhere along the way it became a tradition for my brother to pick one teeny tiny bloom from the Petunia plant to give to Evie on the way out. One day he forgot and the kid had a freakin' meltdown in the driveway, screaming like a banshee with spit flying everywhere and tiny little crocs stomping the poor ants to death. All the while she was frantically doing this THING with her hand over her mouth.
Turns out its the 'Sign' for "Flower." At least that's what her Baby Einstein DVD tells us.
Anyway, it's a tradition, and if we all want to go home in peace, my brother picks that frikken flower and hands it to the baby Drill Sargent.
Tonight on our way out, my brother disappeared for a minute and came back with beautiful bouquets of flowers for both Evie and Abby. Both the girls were awestruck and sniffing every flower like a starving Bumblebee.
We walked out to the car, everyone happy, happy, happy. I pick Evie up to put her in the truck and she starts screaming.
"Flower" sign language.
Yeah. You guessed it. She still wanted that little teeny Petunia flower that she is supposed to get every day.
Bouquets are beautiful, bright and deep, and she loved it... but you can't mess with tradition and tradition says that my brother picks a flower off the Petunia plant to give to her.
My youngest daughter. My delicate flower..........