Sugar Rush

Confession #1: The title of this post has gotten that little ditty from "Wreck It Ralph" stuck in my head. You know the one. And now you can thank me because YOU have it playing on repeat in your noggin, too.

You're welcome.

Confession #2: This post could also be titled "Thanks a whole bunch, Grandma Kat".

Let me elaborate.

. . .

I decided it would be rather delightful to meet my mom for lunch today before baby Curtis pops out and leaving my residence becomes exponentially more difficult. So I loaded Hannah in her car seat and off we went; braving the winter slush and crazy Utah drivers.

We arrived at my mom's work and Hannah immediately zeroed in on a giant exercise ball my mom has stashed in her office {for reasons unknown ;)}. The only thing that managed to compete for her attention was the magical drawer in which my mom hoards all sorts of snacks and candy. I think Hannah inhaled 20 M&M's and a handful of other miscellaneous confections in under two minutes.

But don't you worry. At the mention of chips and salsa, she was all for going out for lunch and abandoning her quest to devour the entire contents of the drawer single-handedly.

I must admit. . . the only thing that girl loves more than sugar is salsa.

Sounds familiar.

After arriving at the restaurant and assuaging her initial hunger pains with some yummy Mexican food, my mom provided Nanny-Bananny with some hearty sips of Diet Coke {oh, how I miss thee, Diet Coke}. Gotta wash down the beans with somethin', you know. Oh, and she mixed in a package of Smarties shortly thereafter for good measure.

It was around this time when I began to notice a change in my child.

Her coloring on the place mat became noticeably more manic. Her pupils may have dilated three or four sizes, though I was much too scared to get close enough to verify {I could have been killed by a crayon, after all}. In short, she pretty much started to vibrate and hum with pent-up energy.  

Now, imagine, if you will, one of those wind-up toys you probably played with as a kid {back in the dizzle before cell phones}.

{photo source}

Hannah was turning into a ticking time-bomb of sugary hyperactivity. I could practically feel the waves of mounting tension pulsating from her high chair.

Now, being the adventurous type of folks we are, my mom and I decided that hitting up the local, ancient, amazing bakery for a small smackerel of doughnut was a genius idea. So if you're tallying, here, add in at least 1/2 of a glazed doughnut to Hannah's sugar intake.

Meanwhile, I kept waiting for the explosion. I knew the episode in the restaurant was only the tip of the iceberg. "Any time, now," I kept thinking. "Her sugar high has got to be coming."

On the way home, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to find Hannah zonked out with her head lolling against her chest. This was not what I expected. Who crashes BEFORE their sugar high?

But, no.

No, no.

Do not be deceived.

She was merely ramping up.

About an hour after we got home {just in time for Chuck to join in on the fun}, she started to get a little crazy. Then she got even crazier around dinnertime. She started jabbering on and on with made-up words, throwing in a few high-pitched screeches for added effect. That's nothing new, of course, but this time it was different. Faster and faster; they came spewing from her mouth. And then she started talking and singing even louder and higher-pitched, if that's even humanly possible.

Around this point in time, she decided to start banging her fork against her highchair, sippy cup, and her own head to add a little percussion to her performance. I feared for my life. And my ear drums. And our neighbor's ear drums.

It was bad, you guys. It might not sound so horrifying, but it's one of those things you have to witness in order to fully comprehend. :)

I'm actually kind of surprised her eyeballs stayed in her skull instead of bulging out from the added energy. 2-year-olds, on average, have enough pure energy coursing through their veins to fuel a small army up a steep, muddy embankment loaded with buried landmines. Amid a barrage of flaming arrows. Twice.

Hannah, however, far surpassed that energy level tonight.

Bedtime couldn't come fast enough, my friends. I worried she might tunnel through the wall and escape into the night only to be found running around the block in the morning, but so far so good. I think she finally ran out of fuel.

So, thank you, mother. If you made any oaths consisting of "One day, you'll have a daughter who acts just like THIS," when I was a wee one, consider them fulfilled.

. . .

But, dang, my kid is still freakin' adorable.

The other day, I came into the room and saw this:



She is her father's daughter, fo' sho'.

Then, a couple days after that, I found this:



I'm sensing a theme, here.

. . .

Unfortunately, I also stumbled across this {the same day} after getting out of the shower:



Those, uh, aren't Pick-up-Sticks. Definitely not. And those little tiny wheat-puff-things she ground into the carpet? Not so easy to vacuum up when you're 9 months pregnant.

Toddlers.

They're the best.

Riiiight?