In the Oxford English Dictionary a mountain is defined as "a natural elevation of the earth surface rising more or less abruptly from the surrounding level and attaining an altitude which, relatively to the adjacent elevation, is impressive or notable."
So great, in relative terms - land forms that rise 400' above Los Feliz should definitely be called a mountain. Or fine, it's a nice hill. And we go there daily to rise above it all, admire the smog-ee smogginess or just notice that all of those cars filled with angry people are really not going that far or fast, it's sweet how their nasty little honks can't affect us up there. It's a nice little bite of perspective on this sprawling city of angel sandwich.
In fact, getting up and down that hill has become so critical to my peace of mind that I call it sanity mountain. Which is dangerous because if I don't get there?
Yep. I'm total koo-koo-pants.
Sometimes I go up twice a day, like today. The first trip I pushed BHB up in the stroller. The 2nd trip he rode on my back. I know, I'm really, really special. And strong! But mostly, sane.
But the story I want to tell is the morning epic. In the AM cute hubs and I gathered our forces and our selves: brown dog, a big-headed baby with big hair, and the set of weary parents. We galloped out the door. Ahem. Limped? After the 10 minute car trip, the stroller was being set up at the base of the mountain (yep, I'm sticking with this mountain theory), and the transfer from car seat to stroller was taking place, a deeply disturbing fact was uncovered. Well, two.
1. A giant, foaming, overflowing poo diaper was in play.
2. The diaper bag with the nice wipes, clean diapers and other clean pants was woefully missing from the car.
What's a hike-needing family to do? Well, I remembered that there was one diaper in the stroller basket. Sure it was sorta crumpled and a little shredded but clean. And it exists.
Then! I remembered there was a buncha wipes in the back where the dog hangs out. Sure they were dried out and furry, but, wipes nonetheless.
Poor BHB. Perched in the back of the car filled with dog hair, he yelped while his little bum was swiped by dried out wipes. Yuck-a. And the fact that the pants were blown out with a smear of poo juice made us go:
"Forget it. Let's go home"
'Cause doing the white trash diaper only thing wasn't do-able, it was a cold morning.
So back the stroller goes into the car, dog coaxed back up, baby buckled in. However, upon spotting a cute striped long sleeve shirt on the floor of the car, I had a brilliant idea.
"Look! Upside down pants!"
I mean really. Why should poopy pants come between us and the mountain?
So, with a relatively clean butt, warm legs and the crows and distant skyline to keep him company, we took to the hill.
Here is some of the fun with improv pants and the Ugg's we got at a shower that are clearly still too big.
|Notice the far-away city...nothing that small can be that bad!|
|Checking out awesome boots. Witness the neck hole at the crotch.|
|The 2nd trip up looked like this. Mom = Sherpa|