She stood there, in the middle of the cat food aisle, staring at us.

I removed my nose from the nook of Fifi's neck, stopped whispering sweet silly nothings into her toddler ears, moved my hands away from her delicious plump midsection (perfectly bulging in her "nastics" leotard) and mustered up enough courage to approach the woman in the cat food aisle.  That was staring at us.

"Hi?"  I uttered, royally pissed off that I was rudely woken up from my trance. Convinced that the woman in the cat aisle would comment on the contents of my cart, since it was obvious that we circled Target twice over as our cart was filled with items  deemed as "not necessary" to the survival of families or perhaps she would comment on the toddler's stained leotard as she refuses to put on anything but.

"You guys are the sweetest thing I've seen in a long while."  Her lip quivered into a smile.  "Enjoy this time.  My baby is a college freshmen."

I've heard it before, "Enjoy this time."  I don't know what it is about the "baby" or the "last" child or in our case the "third child" that stops me in my tracks to actually acknowledge that statement.

Jay and Lola are 19 months apart.  Their toddler years were spent with me researching the right way to discipline children and the art of cooking wholesome hearty stews.  I absorbed myself in books published by mothers-of-one-child-who-had-a-pretty-book-cover whom recommended that children that refuse to eat their hearty stews sit in a stoooooooopid area called a "time out mat" giving them choices of 1, 2, and never 3. Oh. How. I wish I could turn back the clocks and tickle my older two kids pink like I do when the Feenster crosses her arms and screams. "I don't"  at the second choice option.

I no longer care that I am raising a child that does not adhere to the social graces of a toddler.  She has no idea of what a "time out" is and can not fathom the idea of someone telling her "no"  but she gives the most incredible hugs and the most spectacular kisses in the world.   If she had a soundtrack to her toddler years it would include the song  fuzzy fuzzy cute cute. That video (search it on youtube to understand) makes us think of her.  "I no fuzzy fuzzy cute cute, I am Fifi!"  She crosses her arms in dismay in which I have to throw out every parenting book on my dusty shelve and tackle her with kisses while laughing.

"You are my fuzzy fuzzy cute cute.  You are as cute as a bunny and as prickly as a hedgehog."

Warning.  Turn down the volume .  I sped up the action, because no one needs to see 3.5 minutes of a toddler dance, except form my mother that will complain for not having enough. Seriously, Bella Bella Dancerella, when sped up is even more annoying than when not.