The search for Froggie pictures had me cracking up yesterday. I flagged some of my favorites and thought you might enjoy them, too.

I honestly cannot believe what a little chubber-muffin Scotty was. No wonder the kid didn't crawl until he was 10 months old -- he was too fat.

Around three months, he started to pack on the pounds. Right in his middle section.

You would think sitting upright would burn some calories, but nope. He continued to expand. Mostly in his face.

(Editor's note: Scotty is not actually sitting upright; under the blanket is his Bumbo seat. Looking at these photos brings back so many memories, including how many stinkin' loads of laundry I did. So. Much. Laundry. Also, please note the breast pump on the left. Egads.)

We went to baby gymnastics. Still, no weight came off. We just laid on a lot of stuffed turtles.

By seven months, the chub was seriously out of control. Look at him - he doesn't even fit in that hat. I'm pretty sure the hat was a 2T.

But like most mothers, I was blind to my own child. So what did I do? I fed him cheese. Not diet cheese, but regular, full-fat cheese. And he loved it.

Scotty displayed no shame about his size. Shame was too complicated of an emotion for his little eight-month old brain to handle. So he sat around the house, naked, reading books.

The only time he balked is when I attempted to feed him something nutritious, like leafy greens. The expression below says it all.

Here, Scotty does his best Chris-Farley-SNL-Chippendales impressions. It's spot-on, really.

But alas, that chub has come off. With walking came running, and with running came major calorie burn. At two and a half years old, we're left with this: slimmer, but all attitude and still naked. And size 9 sneakers.

Yup, that's my kid. Why is he wearing sneakers on my couch?!

Scotty has recently developed an affinity for certain stuffed animals over the last few weeks.

It started out innocently enough. After spending the morning cuddling with White Bear, Scotty insisted on bringing him with us to Costco. I consented. I mean, it was just White Bear. Where's the harm in that?

So White Bear came to Costco with us. Scotty kept a protective (chubby) arm around him the whole trip.

And then this week, he was all about Tucker. When I told him we had to go the dry cleaners and the grocery store, again, he insisted Tucker come with us.

(I know, I know. The glamorous life of the stay-at-home mom. This is why I get so excited about Junior League stuff.)

As you can see in the cart, next to the almond milk, is Tucker the Puppy. Forever sleeping, since his batteries are dead. (shh...)

And then today, it was Jelly Cat's turn to shine. Not only did he get snuggles all morning, but he was honored with a trip to music lessons. I don't know about you, but introducing a stuffed animals to five other toddlers is like donning a cow carcass and jumping into a pool of sharks. It's just a really, really bad idea.

Thankfully, no toddlers were injured during music lessons, and more thankfully, Scotty lost interest in Jelly after twenty minutes. I was able to stash the cat behind my bag and it (he?) didn't pose as an interruption for the rest of class. No one melted down, no one got into a tug-of-war with Jelly with his floppy cars. Peace endured. (mostly).

I looked it up on Baby Center to determine if this behavior was normal, and it is. According to the experts, it's common for children this age to gravitate toward a favorite lovey or stuffed animal (or in our case, multiple stuffed animals). They suggest that because kids are so busy exploring this big, scary world, a lovey or animal is a great way to comfort themselves during this journey towards independence.

Okay, I'll buy it. Sounds good.

But please tune in to watch us on "Hoarders: Toddler Edition" as they chronicle the Bear's bedtime "comforting" routine. There are so many stinkin' animals in his bed, we're not sure where our child is.

Can you find him?

Someone lost his.

...and one day, I'll be showing this picture to his prom date.

So the weird thing about being a parent is that you are so freaking excited for your child to start talking. If I could graph it out, it would like something like this:

0-6 months: He made a noise that wasn't crying! Hooray!!

6-9 months: He's babbling! This is great! I think he said, "Da-da!"

9-12 months: Omigosh! Real words! He said "Ball!" And "dog"! That is so cute! Did we get that on video?

12-16 months: Wow, he was saying a whole bunch of stuff like two months ago, and now the kid has gone silent. Where is that ASD checklist again?

16-22 months: Oh, we're fine. He's chattering away again. I think all of that physical activity took away from language development. Now he's putting together one and two word sentences. This is the greatest!

22-26 months: He's just a little chatterbox! What a love! Everything that comes out of his mouth is adorable. He's up to three and four - and beyond - word sentences! Amazing!

26+ months: Is this kid ever going to shut up? Oh my god. And how in the world did he become so opinionated? And bossy? Did he really just tell me to sit down? I'm the parent here!

As you might guess, we are at 26+ months.

Scotty has turned into something of a small dictator.

He is ruling this family with a tiny, iron fist. Brian and I are quickly learning that if Scotty isn't happy, ain't nobody happy. And it's about the smallest stuff, too. Like lunch yesterday. I asked him if he wanted cheese. He said, "Otay." (so adorable). I then went to the fridge and got him a wheel of Babybel cheese. He saw me, waved his hand with authority, and said, "No. String cheese."

I'm sure I blanched for a moment before replying, "Uh...sorry sweetie. We don't have any string cheese." I was just at Costco! How did I forget the string cheese?! Curses! The child will be unhappy! Use distraction. "Have a wheel of cheese instead."

He pounded his fists on the table. "No wheel cheese! No wheel! String cheese! STRING CHEESE!"

Had it been in his vocab, I half expected him to say, "Off with her head!"

Aside from having very strong opinions about cheese, Scotty also likes to act as my doctor. Every morning, he tells me to sit on the bed ("Sit down, Momb," as he pats the blanket) and take my vitamins. He likes to pull each container out one by one, demand I open them, and then set the pill on the dresser. He then examines the vitamin before shoving it in my mouth yelling, "Take vitamin, Momb. TAKE VITAMIN!" This goes on for like, twenty minutes, until I'm on B-6 overload. It's like have a pint-size physician. A very, very bossy one. And I'm sure I have the most expensive urine in all of Las Vegas.

His demands aren't for me alone, thankfully. Yesterday, he barked at his stuffed doggie. Then held the dog at eye level and reprimanded him, saying, "Indoor voice, Doggie. INDOOR VOICE!"

::sigh::

Or my personal favorite, which happened at Costco yesterday (yes, the same visit where I did not purchase any string cheese). I was fishing in my wallet for the Costco card, which had wedged itself in the farthest corner. My dalliances were holding up the line to enter the store and Scotty took one look at me and then the line, and then exclaimed very loudly, "Oh for goodness' sake, Momb!"

Everyone laughed. Except me.

Toddlers are funny. It's like living with a combination of a parrot, raccoon, and some kind of tropical storm all at once. Your house is never clean. Your words come back to haunt you. You never know when the next Category 5 storm will hit.

I think that's why God made 'em cute.

Thank goodness for that.

I've been fairly open on here about my reluctance to start the arduous task of potty-training, and then this morning, Scotty called my bluff.

Little stinker.

He's taken to pooping in our closet. This is much better than it sounds - he is still wearing a diaper and the mess is contained. He, however, is hitting that stage where a little, uh, privacy is needed. Yesterday, as I made the bed and got ready, I watched as he bee-lined to our closet, very carefully slid the door shut, and gave me one last look like, "Hey Mom...pretend you're not seeing this."

I thought he had something in his mouth, so I followed him and cracked the door. He didn't have anything in his mouth, as he stood here, mouth agape, knees bent, face red. He looked up at me and I felt like I had completely interrupted a very private moment. He then burst into a big smile and declared, "Poo poo!" and gave him rump a hearty pat.

This morning, he did the same thing. I half-expected him to grab the USWeekly off the nightstand before he hit the closet. I followed him again, but before he had a chance to push, I asked him, "Are you making poo-poos?" He nodded yes. "Do you want to go on the potty?" He looked at me, looked over at the bathroom, and then said very certainly, "Yes. Potty."

Um...

See, I don't have a toddler potty seat. I don't have anything potty related, and the kid just called my bluff. I didn't expect him to say yes - I thought I had six more months to plan my attack. I would have to hold him over the seat while he dropped fecal matter in the toilet, and quite honestly, that sounded like a haz-mat situation in the making.

So I did what any good parent does in that situation: I stalled and then distracted him.

"What a good boy!" I said, gently taking him by the arm and steering him past the potty. "Let's go to your room and change your diaper...and then M&Ms!"

Looks like I know how's buying an Elmo-toddler potty this weekend.

Remember how I mentioned the Bear is a better traveler than I am? He is. He really is.

I learned what a lovely travel companion he is during the recent jaunt to the Midwest last week. In an effort to save some cash, both flights had layovers - one in Omaha and one in Phoenix. Nothing against the good people of Omaha, but your airport kind of sucks. Sorry. That was definitely stressful - getting off a plane, having 60 minutes to kill, and then re-boarding yet another plane. As any mother would attest, traveling with toddlers makes you sherpa-like; the bags, the stroller, the child. It's an additional 50 pounds of stuff that a normal human being doesn't have to lug around.

But alas, Scotty was blissfully well-behaved on all of the flights. Leaving Chicago, our flight was delayed 15 minutes. No problem, I thought; we have a 60 minute lay-over in Phoenix. We are still good on time. I bought the Bear a McDonald's cheeseburger ("cheese-bur-ger-ger," in Bearspeak) and we settled in at the gate.

Fifteen minutes went by. No plane.

Thirty minutes went by. Then thirty-five. Then forty. I began to pace, with the Bear in tow, feverishly praying for a plane. Scotty's cheeseburger was long gone by this point, so he was happily flying his own little toy plane in the window of the airport gate. He had no idea what a lay-over was or how annoying it is to miss a flight (especially when you are so close to home.)

Finally, ten minutes later, a plane arrived. We boarded, we flew, yada yada. The plane touched down in sunny, glorious Phoenix (ah, how I love the sun) at 3:29. Our flight - leaving out of the D gates - was scheduled to depart at 4:00pm. I can still make, I told myself. We might have to hurry, but we'll make it.

Then the stupid plane sits on the tarmac for the next twenty minutes.

At 3:52, I pushed my call button. The flight attendant scurried over, probably thinking there was a problem with my child (who was sitting silently next to me, completely absorbed in "Cars." We were out of gummi bears, but hadn't yet touched the Cheez-Its or M&Ms. Life is grand when you are a traveling Bear.) "I have a flight to catch at 4pm," I told her quietly. "I have to be in Vegas by six..." I hesitated for a moment, then said quickly, "...I have a speaking engagement at six. And I'm the speaker."

Eight heads swiveled my way immediately. They were probably sizing me up thinking, "Who is this chick? She looks like a stay-at-home mom...frumpy...tired...poorly dressed. But she has a speaking engagement?"

Yes, I admit, I was grossly overstating my role. I had agreed to speak at a round-table training for Junior League that night. Considering my two good friends were hosting it, I didn't want to leave them in a lurch. But did it sound like I was presenting myself as some kind of key-note speaker at a large Vegas convention? Well, that was up to my audience to determine.

The flight attendant quickly promised to call the gate of the plane leaving, would attempt to get the stroller out of baggage as quickly as possible, and would order us an electric cart to transport the Bear and I to the D gates. (We were pulling into the C terminal, so it was a trek.) The guy behind me quickly latched on to my electric cart promise, stating he too was going to Vegas on the four o'clock flight, and asked if he could catch a ride. Feeling magnanimous, I said yes. I was, after all, a speaker. At a function. Where people would be listening to...me. (insert drunk-with-power-hair-flip-here).

So imagine my surprise when we finally, finally exited that plane only to find...no stroller. We waited two grueling minutes, and the man going to Vegas hustled by, promising to look for the electric cart while I waited at the plane's gate for the stroller to be brought up. Finally, the stroller emerged and Scotty and I were able to escape the tunnel to find...no electric cart. Did that guy take it? Did it ever arrive? Either way, I threw my child into the stroller, slung the bags off each hook, straightened my ballet flats, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. "Hold on, Scotty," I told him. "You're going for a ride."

The kid squealed with joy all the way from C-18 to D-3. I can say with certainty that we were moving at approximately 5.8-6.2 mph.  I almost ran over several elderly folks and one small child, but we did make it on time. I was dripping with sweat, out of breath, but thankful that marathon training has its unexpected benefits (like covering 1/4 of a mile in about 2 minutes).

Thank god.

The good people on this flight brought me a drink at no cost (gin and tonic, my favorite airplane drink). Scotty noshed on Cheez-Its and I reapplied my make-up. By the time we landed, we found ourselves in the familiar position of waiting by the plane's door for the stroller to be brought up. After another 10 minutes, the pilot emerged and asked if we were okay. I told him about the situation, and he immediately offered to go find it himself. When he came back with it, he thanked us for flying his airline. Just as I was about to walk away, he then said, "Hey! You wanna come see the cockpit?"

Do I? Does the Bear?

Is the Pope Catholic?

And just like that, Scotty got a chance to view firsthand what it looks like from the pilot's seat. I was very cautious about going up there, but Scotty wasn't. Once I put him in the seat (at the encouragement of the pilot), he grabbed for the gears and started smashing the buttons. The pilot was cool about it, but I wasn't (um, I wasn't ready for the plane to start moving again and inadvertently send us to Mumbai.)

I find this to particularly amusing, since when we were taking Scotty home from the hospital on Day 3 of his young life, we put him in his car seat and found he looked a lot like a fighter pilot. Maybe a career in aviation is in his future?

Let's hope he didn't inherit his mother's fear of heights.

Something momentous happened on Wednesday.

I turned 23.

For the 10th year in a row.

(::giggles::)

To be honest, I was dreading my birthday this year. With all of the events of this summer, I was just not in a celebratory mood. A few friends had asked me if I wanted to go out and grab a birthday drink, and I promptly turned them down. The thing was, I just wasn't sure how I was going to be feeling. And the last thing I wanted to do was schedule a big night out only to have me crying uncontrollably and completely ruining the whole thing.

(The Strip lights have been hard to look at lately. My dad loved the Strip, and on the night we were at the Cosmopolitian with Uncle Jay, I had forgotten about this until I was comfortably laying in a chaise lounge by the pool. One glance at the Paris and Bellagio signs and I melted into a puddle of Kim. Not good. Kind of makes for an awkward night for everyone involved. Especially when I forget to wear waterproof mascara.)

So I made the decision to avoid the Strip at night. Except the next General Membership meeting for Junior League was being held at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay.

At night.

On my birthday.

And I had to speak for my committee.

Really?

It was kind of one of the those one-two punches where I was like, "How am I going to get out of this one?" but kept coming up with no answer. I had missed the last GM in June. I didn't want to send another proxy.

And so I sucked it up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and declined every invitation to celebrate my birthday that night. Because who knows how I was going to feel? I figured I would just keep my head down and go to bed early. No harm, no foul.

Besides, my dad has always sent me flowers on my birthday for every year I've been alive. He never missed a year. Ever. The idea of not getting flowers because of my dad's passing was like a total sucker punch, right in the gut. that took the wind right out of me.

Quite honestly, if the opportunity arose, I would have cancelled the whole day altogether.

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday morning only to find my forehead wrinkle to be bigger and deeper than ever. (I've been talking about my forehead wrinkle forever; it's the one right between my eyebrows. If I could, I would Botox that sucker into oblivion.) And on the morning of my 33rd birthday, my forehead wrinkle seemed to be mocking me, making it known that I wasn't getting any younger and future would be filled with fancy creams and injectables. Yay. Break out the balloons.

I was incredibly grumpy by the time I poured myself my first cup of coffee. Brian brightened the morning by giving me three of my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery (Retro Bakery!) with candles in them. Scotty sat in his chair, clapping and shouting, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" The gloom from the rain and my giant forehead wrinkle seemed to feel a little less heavy, though I wasn't sure what I was going to do all morning.

By 8am, I had my answer.

A loud knock on the front door revealed my very silly friend Deana, thrusting a giant cup of Starbucks coffee in my face, shouting, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Her kids were in the car, Courtney was on her way over, and according to them, I was off for the morning. They had booked me a mani-pedi at the local nail place, a blow-out with my stylist, and were on Bear-duty for the rest of the day.

Me? I was speechless.

Let me tell you, that forehead wrinkle didn't seem to be that big of a deal at this point. Ditto for the rain.

With a little convincing, I managed to stay for a bit of a play date with the girls (presents! Cards! Coffee!) and then head to the gym to get my miles in (this marathon isn't going to run itself.) Then it was back home to feed Scotty, put him down, and oh yeah, did I mention they had called the sitter to come an hour early, allowing me to make it to my hair appointment on time?

By 3pm, my nails were polished ("Ibiza" by Zoya on the toes, "Second Honeymoon" by OPI on the hands) and my hair was a bouncy, shiny cascade of curls. I joined Deana while she was getting her haircut, and the two of us sat there, sipping Pinot Noir and giggling. We changed into our nicer clothes for the meeting and headed to Mandalay Bay. I felt like a saucy, glammed-up version of my normal self. The shiny, Spanx-d kind.

Dawn, Deana's co-chair and a member of our provisional class, met us in the parking garage, with Popcorn Girl popcorn for me (swoon!) and champagne for all of us. Seriously? I felt like I was back in college, without a care in the world, as I sipped my Vevue Cliquot, except in college, there was no expensive champagne, no Cole Haan kitten heels, and no leaning against an adorable Mercedes convertible in a giant casino parking garage. But you know what? If this is what 33 looks like, count me in.

The meeting went great, I managed to not vomit on the microphone or trip over my new handbag (a birthday present from Brian, what I can only call "The Purse that Will Never Be a Diaper Bag," since all of my other purses seemed to have morphed into matchbox car-carrying, diaper-stashing bags.) I don't know if it was all the champagne, but I couldn't stop grinning. Even the sight of the Las Vegas skyline, lit up against the night sky, did not upset me. I felt great. I felt happy. I felt...excited.

And so five of us headed to Fleur for a quick birthday dinner after the meeting, and surprisingly, my heart did not hurt a bit. There were no tears on the horizon. Nancy purchased a mini-bottle of Vevue Cliquot to split (again, what is up with all of this great bubbly? Where has it been all my life?) and just as the croque monseuirs were arriving...

...so did a certain silver-haired Bravo TV Top Chef judge and contestant.

Be still my beating heart. It was Hubert Keller.

If you've read this blog, you know that I've been talking about Chef Keller for years. YEARS. And there were a few near missed for he and I over the years. The one time Brian and I were there for dinner, and he was there, but did not approach our table. Or the other time we saw him getting out of the parking garage elevator with his wife and we waved but he didn't hear us. Or the many, many times I've attempted to stalk him at the Burger Bar with my cute, camera-ready child in tow.

And then on all nights, with absolutely no pre-planning or pre-thought on my part, he just walked out of the shadows and up to our table and asked us if we were enjoying our meal.

I have no idea what my face looked like, but everyone started laughing hysterically at me. Apparently the first words out of my mouth were, "Hubert Keller! I LOVE YOU!" and I popped out of the booth and started vigorously shaking his hands.

Yup, that was me. Cool as a cucumber.

Thankfully, he was very good-natured about it and posed for a few pictures. (I even managed to touch his little ponytail...it's as soft and beautiful as he is.) He came back to our table a second time and asked if we had ordered dessert yet. Sonnya told him it was my birthday and without hesitation, he told us he would be happy to have our server make us Fleur's signature dessert, a fogado, tableside. I also told him we had an empty spot if he wanted to join us, but he politely declined.

Bummer.

Honestly, it was such a great night. It was so overwhelming and wonderful and exciting. The a fogado was made with liquid nitrogen (a nod to Richard Blaise, perhaps?) and was totally delicious. It reminded me of Ireland. I don't think I stopped talking about Chef Keller the whole night, either. I was still talking about it by the time I arrived home and Brian greeted me (Dawn had texted him a picture of the two of us.)

Amazing? Absolutely. And the whole day - not just the Hubert Keller part - was perfect, start to finish. For what could have been a really tough day, I'm happy to say my friends made it into something extraordinary. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, I didn't even notice my forehead wrinkle, mainly because the laugh lines around my mouth were so much deeper.

But those are wrinkles I will gladly take.