For this week I chose two favorites, because the first is insanely short and they both involve an obsession with undergarments.
The first is from last fall, the second from Februaryish. Enjoy! (Sometime I may even get back to writing new posts...
All Thing Bra
We went to Arby's for lunch today, and the kid was in the process of a ham and cheese sandwich massacre when a long piece of stringy ham slid off her sandwich. She picked it up off the paper and examined it as it dangled in all of its stringiness. I was on the edge of "stop playing with your food and eat it" when she beat me to opening her mouth, and here is what tumbled out in the most quizzical manner:
"Is this a bra?"
What?! Mom and I both just stared at her, dumbfounded, waiting for the punchline. It never happened. She repeated the question, just to cement that she did indeed mean it. We just laughed our heads off. It was probably ten minutes before we could speak enough to give her an English answer (not to mention a complex). I don't know where she got this wild idea, because she knows what a bra is. She's obsessed with them.
More proof of this fact (but first some background):
My child only asked for one thing for Christmas this year, and she got it, so now I think she's starting to see her fault in the asking process. Somewhere along the way, her brain has decided "I get everything I want for Christmas...I should have asked for 50 million things instead of just one." Ever since the day after Christmas, we can't leave the house without her seeing at least 27 things she wants for Christmas next year.
We were at the mall a couple of weeks ago, and we were getting ready to leave Old Navy, and I was having trouble keeping the offspring tethered. This was an unplanned trip, so we were lacking in the stroller department. Anyway, I was using the old "follow me or get left here by yourself" threat. It was working quite nicely...until I looked back and no longer had her in my sight. (I think kids play that game on purpose and they're watching you and laughing because they can somehow see that your stomach just fell out of your butt from the panic.)
It was only for a split second, mind you, because after that second, here she comes, running through the crowded store, waving a sports bra over her head.
"MOMMY MOMMY! I WANT THIS FOR CHRISTMAS TO PUT MY BOOBIES IN!" I quickly glanced around. Just as I suspected. Everyone in America was watching and snickering.
"Honey, let's put that back...you don't have any boobies to put in there yet." I thought this was a tactful enough answer, but of COURSE she just couldn't let it go.
"Well then I want BOOBIES for Christmas TOO!" Yes. The whole population of our lovely state is still watching, don't worry.
I pondered for a moment, and decided it wasn't fair for her to get all the laughs at my expense and loudly replied, "ME TOO!"
I bet neither of us will get our wish.
Showing posts with label kids say the darndest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids say the darndest. Show all posts
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
First Day of School
I'm officially old. The kid went to school. She started off the day like a typical school aged child. (Half slung out of her bed, drool covered pillow, lots of mumbling when I woke her up-obviously too early.) Baby was our (obvious) first topic of conversation.
"Good morning Pumkin! Do you know what today is?"
*rubbing eyes* "What?"
"Where do you go today?"
"School." *yawn*
"Are you excited?"
*flatline* "Yeah."
I could barely hold the giggles. She sounded like she'd done this a million times. I asked her if she was sure she was excited and she very flatly insisted. Then came a final attempt at saving her relationship with her best friend.
"Can I take baby?"
"Honey, we already talked about that. Where does baby have to stay?"
"In my backpack. Why does School not let us have our babies?"
And so it begins. I wanted to tell her that school was The Man and to get used to it.
We went on downstairs to eat oats and watch part of a Veggie Tale. I was very unsure about how we were going to get ready in time, because she is slower than a sleeping turtle. She also still needed a bath because she insisted on waiting till morning to take one so we could fix her hair. Teenhood is going to kill me. I rushed some oats down her face, bathed her so quickly that I almost drowned her without even noticing and stuffed her into her dress. We ran downstairs to fix her hair and of course I got the brush stuck in it while we were working on that. "Oh gee!" I thought. "PERFECT! I hope we're late the very first day!" We can just barely afford the school she's going to, and I'm already worried about stupid things that don't matter. (Like her walmart backpack hanging in a row with everyone's LL Bean personalized backpacks...) I don't need to look dumb running in late also.
We made it (fixed hair, pictures, and all) to the parking lot with ten minutes to spare. (Woot!) I parked, sighed, and relaxed into my seat. Then I started feeling kind of closed in. I looked to my left. Navigator. I looked to my right. Escalade. That's funny, I pulled in between the two biggest cars here and my car is so tiny. I looked out the windshield at the row in front of me. Honda minivan. Yukon. Town and Country. Escalade. Honda Minivan. Honda minivan. Navigator. Oh! A car! Oh...BMW. Town and Country. BMW. Oh well. At least my car is from Germany. Sucks for Brandon when he has to drop her off in his $700 station wagon that has a primer gray hood.
I grabbed the kid and stuffed her into her WalMart backpack and headed for the door. On the way across the parking lot, I noticed that everyone had taken the day off from doctoring and lawyering and brought the whole family to the first day of school in their sunday clothes. Crap. I needed a memo for that. Here I am in my running clothes without my husband in a VW. Unexpected failure.
Despite all my worries, she had a fantastic first day. (Apparently kids that young aren't ashamed of WalMart backpacks yet.) She didn't stop talking about it all night and or all day Thursday. She was very dissapointed when she didn't get to go on Thursday. Friday morning I woke her up and this is what I got:
"It's time to go to school again!"
Rolls over and sighs "That's ok, Mommy. I don't really feel like going. I'll just stay here today."
Excuse me?! Are you a senior in College?! "Um...well baby, that's not really a choice. Besides, I thought you liked school?"
"I did. It was fun. But I don't need to go anymore." Riiiiiight...
I think we exhausted every spectrum of feelings toward school in a 48 hour period. I hope she sticks close to the "love it" end!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Baby's Bath
Have I mentioned that my kid is hilarious? Ok, not lately, so here's a long awaited bout of hilarity.
My kid carries around this "baby" that's really a bear head with a blanket for a body. You know, the kind of thing that you're always supposed to own a second one? Of course, we have one. Anyway, she calls it Bear Baby. The only problem she's going to have next week when she starts preschool is that Bear Baby must stay in her backpack. Good thing she loves her backpack. I still feel sorry for her teacher.
I used to be able to get her to put Bear Baby in the front loading washing machine for a bath. It was working fine as long as I planned baths far enough away from nap or bedtime. However, suddenly she has decided that she can no longer be away from Baby for that hour, so Baby hasn't had a bath in, let's say...a month?
Baby has been to church, the pool, many public restrooms, restaurants, Camden Park (probably 6 times), and a large variety of other places in the last month. Baby smells like a butt. And every night when my darling sleeps she sucks her thumb and rubs her fingers through the germs from church, the pool, many public restrooms, restaurants, Camden Park, and a large variety of other places. And it doesn't seem to phase her that Baby smells like a butt.
I realize this is disgusting. But you should really see the enormous drawn out Scarlett O'Hara monologue that ensues every time I try to inch Baby toward the washer. It should win and Emmy. I tried stealing it from her in her sleep but she caught me. So I let the kid win one...hey...it doesn't happen often.
Well, today I got a whiff and had quite enough. I decided I was winning and it didn't matter how much I had to use my huge powers as a big mean parent to do it-Baby was getting a bath. Period. I began making announcements concerning the event upon the departure from Grammy's house. I rode all the way across town with Scarlett.
When we arrive at our house I tried giving her the option of putting it in herself.
"Don't you want to be a Mommy and give your Baby a bath?"
"NO! I CAN'T Mommy! I just CAN'T give her UP! I CAN'T give up my BABY!" Of course with this notion (which I'm thinking she might have acquired from accidentally overhearing a lifetime movie) she threw herself on the floor and began to literally wail.
"Well, pumpkin, she has to go in and get clean. Either you put her or Mommy's going to."
Of course she only clutched her tighter and rolled over on her and continued her routine. This forced me to use physical force to pry it away. (Didn't I feel totally tough for being able to overpower a 25 pound preschooler.) I carried baby off to the laundry room and the kid followed close behind crawling and sobbing. I tried to stay cheerful so I wouldn't be painted as an ogre when she tells it. I told her to tell her Baby to have a good bath and she actually said these words:
"I didn't want to give you up. She made me do it! Mommy MADE you get a bath. I hope you feel clean when you're done. I don't want to be without you."
Drama. Queen.
I finally just left her sobbing at the washer door with her face pressed to the plastic. I came back to the living room and a few minutes later she came shuffling in, shoulders hunched, head down, feet scuffing, and nose sniffling so hard I think some brain damage went on.
"What's wrong pumpkin?"
"I...can't...see...my...*sniiiiiiiiiff*...Baby any...more...*sniff sniff sniff*...She got covered up by the...blaaaaaaankies..."
"Honey...it's really going to be ok. She'll be out before you know it, and she won't STINK. I've got another blanky you can hold until then."
"Is it soft?"
"Yes! and it's CLEAN!"
"Is it pink?"
"It has some pink on it."
"Does it have a Bear for a head?"
"Um...no. But it has all those other things!"
"I guess I can hold it."
I already know this isn't going to work, but I thought it might at least hold her off for twenty minutes and she could have a visitation on Baby's way to the dryer. I gave her the insufficient Baby replacement. She held it quietly for 37 seconds.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Can you draw me a picture of my Bear Baby?"
"What for, honey?"
"So I can cuddle the paper you draw her on. I need to be with her."
She meant it. God be with her Preschool teachers.
My kid carries around this "baby" that's really a bear head with a blanket for a body. You know, the kind of thing that you're always supposed to own a second one? Of course, we have one. Anyway, she calls it Bear Baby. The only problem she's going to have next week when she starts preschool is that Bear Baby must stay in her backpack. Good thing she loves her backpack. I still feel sorry for her teacher.
I used to be able to get her to put Bear Baby in the front loading washing machine for a bath. It was working fine as long as I planned baths far enough away from nap or bedtime. However, suddenly she has decided that she can no longer be away from Baby for that hour, so Baby hasn't had a bath in, let's say...a month?
Baby has been to church, the pool, many public restrooms, restaurants, Camden Park (probably 6 times), and a large variety of other places in the last month. Baby smells like a butt. And every night when my darling sleeps she sucks her thumb and rubs her fingers through the germs from church, the pool, many public restrooms, restaurants, Camden Park, and a large variety of other places. And it doesn't seem to phase her that Baby smells like a butt.
I realize this is disgusting. But you should really see the enormous drawn out Scarlett O'Hara monologue that ensues every time I try to inch Baby toward the washer. It should win and Emmy. I tried stealing it from her in her sleep but she caught me. So I let the kid win one...hey...it doesn't happen often.
Well, today I got a whiff and had quite enough. I decided I was winning and it didn't matter how much I had to use my huge powers as a big mean parent to do it-Baby was getting a bath. Period. I began making announcements concerning the event upon the departure from Grammy's house. I rode all the way across town with Scarlett.
When we arrive at our house I tried giving her the option of putting it in herself.
"Don't you want to be a Mommy and give your Baby a bath?"
"NO! I CAN'T Mommy! I just CAN'T give her UP! I CAN'T give up my BABY!" Of course with this notion (which I'm thinking she might have acquired from accidentally overhearing a lifetime movie) she threw herself on the floor and began to literally wail.
"Well, pumpkin, she has to go in and get clean. Either you put her or Mommy's going to."
Of course she only clutched her tighter and rolled over on her and continued her routine. This forced me to use physical force to pry it away. (Didn't I feel totally tough for being able to overpower a 25 pound preschooler.) I carried baby off to the laundry room and the kid followed close behind crawling and sobbing. I tried to stay cheerful so I wouldn't be painted as an ogre when she tells it. I told her to tell her Baby to have a good bath and she actually said these words:
"I didn't want to give you up. She made me do it! Mommy MADE you get a bath. I hope you feel clean when you're done. I don't want to be without you."
Drama. Queen.
I finally just left her sobbing at the washer door with her face pressed to the plastic. I came back to the living room and a few minutes later she came shuffling in, shoulders hunched, head down, feet scuffing, and nose sniffling so hard I think some brain damage went on.
"What's wrong pumpkin?"
"I...can't...see...my...*sniiiiiiiiiff*...Baby any...more...*sniff sniff sniff*...She got covered up by the...blaaaaaaankies..."
"Honey...it's really going to be ok. She'll be out before you know it, and she won't STINK. I've got another blanky you can hold until then."
"Is it soft?"
"Yes! and it's CLEAN!"
"Is it pink?"
"It has some pink on it."
"Does it have a Bear for a head?"
"Um...no. But it has all those other things!"
"I guess I can hold it."
I already know this isn't going to work, but I thought it might at least hold her off for twenty minutes and she could have a visitation on Baby's way to the dryer. I gave her the insufficient Baby replacement. She held it quietly for 37 seconds.
"Mommy?"
"Yes, pumpkin?"
"Can you draw me a picture of my Bear Baby?"
"What for, honey?"
"So I can cuddle the paper you draw her on. I need to be with her."
She meant it. God be with her Preschool teachers.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Just Kidding!
I was just kidding about waiting three months to post. Here's what happened:
First I went back to work. Of course, this is really no excuse, because I only substitute teach two or three days a week. (Subbing is the best job ever. Every day I go in and pop in a movie (at the teacher's request) and sit back and rob the board of education of $127. If I dislike a particular school, I don't have to go back. If I don't feel like getting up, I turn off my phone. It's the best.) And I have no planning to do during the hour and a half breaks I usually have...ample blogging time...
Anyway, my second excuse is that I decided around the time of my last post that I would pretend to be a runner. (You know, kind of like I pretend to be a writer...) I did pretty good for awhile. I broke my pinky toe and got right back on it. I had an asthma attack (for the first time ever) and got right back out there. After about 10 weeks I was on week 7 of the 9 week Couch to 5K program. And then for some reason I just quit. (Kinda like this blog...)
So yesterday, my awesome little cousin reminded me that my blog is hilarious (Shout out to Alex!) and I thought, "oh yeah. I AM pretty funny. I should get back on that." And then I thought "Hmmm...I haven't run for about 6 weeks. I should do that too."
Of course I decided that the proper way to get back to running was to just go out and run 3 miles. No warm-up, no intervals, just do it. More evidence that I'm a pretend runner. I'm feeling that today. But I ran 2.8 miles in 31 minutes. Not really worth publishing, but I was satisfied!
The kid is plugging along. She tells me to go to work on days that I don't so that she can play with her Grammy. Thanks, kid. She had her third birthday since my last post. I'll go back and talk about that later. It was quite a week of events. Probably the best conversation we've had in awhile went as follows:
Kid *randomly*: Mommy? Where's the north pole?
Me: Way up on top of the world.
Kid: Well...I don't see why Santa doesn't just move here. Then he wouldn't have to come so far to see me.
Awesome.
Well, since I waited so long to blog, there's all kinds of pressure to deliver greatness. I just wanted to get over the hump of getting back on here...sorry to disappoint! :) More laughs next time...
First I went back to work. Of course, this is really no excuse, because I only substitute teach two or three days a week. (Subbing is the best job ever. Every day I go in and pop in a movie (at the teacher's request) and sit back and rob the board of education of $127. If I dislike a particular school, I don't have to go back. If I don't feel like getting up, I turn off my phone. It's the best.) And I have no planning to do during the hour and a half breaks I usually have...ample blogging time...
Anyway, my second excuse is that I decided around the time of my last post that I would pretend to be a runner. (You know, kind of like I pretend to be a writer...) I did pretty good for awhile. I broke my pinky toe and got right back on it. I had an asthma attack (for the first time ever) and got right back out there. After about 10 weeks I was on week 7 of the 9 week Couch to 5K program. And then for some reason I just quit. (Kinda like this blog...)
So yesterday, my awesome little cousin reminded me that my blog is hilarious (Shout out to Alex!) and I thought, "oh yeah. I AM pretty funny. I should get back on that." And then I thought "Hmmm...I haven't run for about 6 weeks. I should do that too."
Of course I decided that the proper way to get back to running was to just go out and run 3 miles. No warm-up, no intervals, just do it. More evidence that I'm a pretend runner. I'm feeling that today. But I ran 2.8 miles in 31 minutes. Not really worth publishing, but I was satisfied!
The kid is plugging along. She tells me to go to work on days that I don't so that she can play with her Grammy. Thanks, kid. She had her third birthday since my last post. I'll go back and talk about that later. It was quite a week of events. Probably the best conversation we've had in awhile went as follows:
Kid *randomly*: Mommy? Where's the north pole?
Me: Way up on top of the world.
Kid: Well...I don't see why Santa doesn't just move here. Then he wouldn't have to come so far to see me.
Awesome.
Well, since I waited so long to blog, there's all kinds of pressure to deliver greatness. I just wanted to get over the hump of getting back on here...sorry to disappoint! :) More laughs next time...
Sunday, February 28, 2010
A First Lesson on Driving
I was coming home on Rt. 60 the other day, traveling in a 45 mile per hour zone. Somehow, my child has discovered a need for speed very early in life, and kept asking me to go faster. This is the conversation that followed her request:
"I can't go any faster, baby. I'll get pulled over by the police."
"Why will they pull you over?" She inquired.
"Well...there's only a certain speed you're allowed to drive, and it's the policeman's job to make sure mommy doesn't go any faster." I think I'm keeping it on her level-not real sure.
"Will he be mad because you didn't mind him?" (At least she didn't say "why?" again!)
"Yes! He will! And he'll give me a ticket, which means I have to pay some money because I got in trouble. Kind of like grownup time out." (What she can't understand is that grownups would LOVE to have a traditional time out. What? You want me to sit in a room alone and not talk or be talked to for one minute per year of my age?? GLADLY. Can I get that in writing?)
I continued on down the road after that, satisfied in thinking that she understood my explanation pretty well. We talked some more and sang a couple of songs. She was pretty quiet as we pulled into our neighborhood. I checked the mirror to see if she was looking sleepy, but she sat in obvious contemplation.
"Whatcha doin, babe?" I asked her.
"Do the policemans have strings?" She asked, obviously still stuck on our previous conversation. I tried to approach this, but I honestly couldn't figure out what to do with it.
"Um...what?" Very intellectual, I know.
"Strings," she repeated, because it was clearly more obvious than I was aware. "To pull your car with."
At this point, I caught up with her thinking and laughed my face off. I'm so awesome at explaining adult life to a toddler. Yes, that's me, the master of child development. Just as my head was about to swell out of the sunroof with the greatness of my awesome parenting, I realize that my darling two-and-a-half, but-I'll-be-three-in-April year old now thinks that police officers lasso your car with a string and "pull you over" when they need to ticket you. Boy howdy.
"I can't go any faster, baby. I'll get pulled over by the police."
"Why will they pull you over?" She inquired.
"Well...there's only a certain speed you're allowed to drive, and it's the policeman's job to make sure mommy doesn't go any faster." I think I'm keeping it on her level-not real sure.
"Will he be mad because you didn't mind him?" (At least she didn't say "why?" again!)
"Yes! He will! And he'll give me a ticket, which means I have to pay some money because I got in trouble. Kind of like grownup time out." (What she can't understand is that grownups would LOVE to have a traditional time out. What? You want me to sit in a room alone and not talk or be talked to for one minute per year of my age?? GLADLY. Can I get that in writing?)
I continued on down the road after that, satisfied in thinking that she understood my explanation pretty well. We talked some more and sang a couple of songs. She was pretty quiet as we pulled into our neighborhood. I checked the mirror to see if she was looking sleepy, but she sat in obvious contemplation.
"Whatcha doin, babe?" I asked her.
"Do the policemans have strings?" She asked, obviously still stuck on our previous conversation. I tried to approach this, but I honestly couldn't figure out what to do with it.
"Um...what?" Very intellectual, I know.
"Strings," she repeated, because it was clearly more obvious than I was aware. "To pull your car with."
At this point, I caught up with her thinking and laughed my face off. I'm so awesome at explaining adult life to a toddler. Yes, that's me, the master of child development. Just as my head was about to swell out of the sunroof with the greatness of my awesome parenting, I realize that my darling two-and-a-half, but-I'll-be-three-in-April year old now thinks that police officers lasso your car with a string and "pull you over" when they need to ticket you. Boy howdy.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Next Year's Christmas List
My child only asked for one thing for Christmas this year, and she got it, so now I think she's starting to see her fault in the asking process. Somewhere along the way, her brain has decided "I get everything I want for Christmas...I should have asked for 50 million things instead of just one." Ever since the day after Christmas, we can't leave the house without her seeing at least 27 things she wants for Christmas next year.
So we were at the mall a couple of weeks ago, and we were getting ready to leave Old Navy, and I was having trouble keeping the offspring tethered. This was an unplanned trip, so we were lacking in the stroller department. Anyway, I was using the old "follow me or get left here by yourself" threat. It was working quite nicely...until I looked back and no longer had her in my sight. (I think kids play that game on purpose and they're watching you and laughing because they can somehow see that your stomach just fell out of your butt from the panic.)
It was only for a split second, mind you, because after that second, here she comes, running through the crowded store, waving a sports bra over her head.
"MOMMY MOMMY! I WANT THIS FOR CHRISTMAS TO PUT MY BOOBIES IN!" I quickly glanced around. Just as I suspected. Everyone in America was watching and snickering.
"Hunny, let's put that back...you don't have any boobies to put in there yet." I thought this was a tactful enough answer, but of COURSE she just couldn't let it go.
"Well then I want BOOBIES for Christmas TOO!" Yes. The whole population of our lovely state is still watching, don't worry.
I pondered for a moment, and decided it wasn't fair for her to get all the laughs at my expense and loudly replied, "ME TOO!"
I bet neither of us will get our wish.
So we were at the mall a couple of weeks ago, and we were getting ready to leave Old Navy, and I was having trouble keeping the offspring tethered. This was an unplanned trip, so we were lacking in the stroller department. Anyway, I was using the old "follow me or get left here by yourself" threat. It was working quite nicely...until I looked back and no longer had her in my sight. (I think kids play that game on purpose and they're watching you and laughing because they can somehow see that your stomach just fell out of your butt from the panic.)
It was only for a split second, mind you, because after that second, here she comes, running through the crowded store, waving a sports bra over her head.
"MOMMY MOMMY! I WANT THIS FOR CHRISTMAS TO PUT MY BOOBIES IN!" I quickly glanced around. Just as I suspected. Everyone in America was watching and snickering.
"Hunny, let's put that back...you don't have any boobies to put in there yet." I thought this was a tactful enough answer, but of COURSE she just couldn't let it go.
"Well then I want BOOBIES for Christmas TOO!" Yes. The whole population of our lovely state is still watching, don't worry.
I pondered for a moment, and decided it wasn't fair for her to get all the laughs at my expense and loudly replied, "ME TOO!"
I bet neither of us will get our wish.
TV Brainwashing
I should have realized that my kid was watching too much TV. But you know...it just keeps snowing and the days and hours of Nick Jr. are all starting to blur together. I didn't mean to let her watch that much, honest.
It finally started to dawn on me the other day. I asked her to bring something to me (and she actually minded) and I said "Thank you, Baby!" To which she replied, "De nada, Mommy!"
Wait, what?!
Did my child just speak Spanish?! I mean, not like reciting numbers or something, but actually in context?! What's going on here? I demand to know who's teaching my child a foreign language! She knows how to say PLENTY in English, thank you, I don't need her out Spanishing me in a couple of months.
Then, in the background...I hear it..."Come on, vamonos! Everybody let's go..." Ah HA! DORA! It's YOU who takes over the brain in my child's head! "That's it!" I declare. "Turn the TV OFF!"
"But Mommy! I was about to go on an adventure!" I know she's also wondering why I'm wigging out that she's learning a foreign language.
I was convinced that turning off the TV was truly the right thing to do while I was riding in Mom's car yesterday. Mom stopped to run an errand while we waited in the car. The kid was playing with some sunglasses and she pinched her hand in one of the arms. I kid you not, this was her honest-to-goodness-no-frills-added response:
"Ouch, ouch! Mommy, help, help, HELP!" She continued on before I had a chance to respond (as if I weren't even in the car.) "What's that? Do you hear it? It sounds like a baby hand. We better help it!" (Emphasis mine, added to show my disbelief in what was happening.)
*Enter theme music as child continues*
"Wonder pets, wonder pets, we're on our way. We'll help the baby hand and save the day. We're not too big and we're not too tough..." (She did pause briefly to ponder the words, but unable to remember them, she brought it on home for a big finish instead) "GoooooOOOOOO WONDERPETS!"
Wow. "Hunny? Did you just say you're going to save a baby hand?" I mean, I could have heard wrong. I'm prone to delusions.
"Yep! I sure did!" She replied.
"Just checking," I mumbled. And vowed to destroy the TV remote.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
My Little Digital Native
I learned a lot in my short career as a teacher. I know there are many teachers out there that will agree with me that some of the most priceless jewels of knowledge we acquire are the yearly "buzzwords." My husband even sent me an awesome idea for using these terms once. I'll pass it on for any current teachers out there.
Here's how it works:
1. Before (or during) you next meeting, in-service or staff development, prepare yourself by drawing a square. I find that 5' x 5' is a good size. Divide the card into columns, five across and five down. That will give you 25 one-inch blocks.
2. Write one of the following words/phrases in each block:
* no child left behind
* test scores
* core competencies
* standards of learning
* benchmarks
* proactive
* think outside the box
* action plan
* data base
* assessments
* knowledge base
* at the end of the day
* touch base
* mindset
* differentiated
* retention
* skills
* background knowledge
* effective learning
* exemplars
* implementation
* reflection
* writing process
* 21st Century Learning
* Problem solving
3. Check off the appropriate block when you hear one of those words/phrases.
4. When you get five blocks horizontally, vertically, or diagonally stand up and shout 'BULLCRAP!'
I got a real big kick out of this email, needless to say. I even copied it and passed it out to some friends at our next faculty senate meeting. You know, so that those of us who don't care about who's paying for the copy machine had something else to do.
ANYway...I say all this JUST to introduce my real point. (Completely unnecessary, I know, but I thought it was funny and it's my blog. If this were a paid publication, you would have seen my point much earlier. You're getting this hilarity for free, don't complain.)
My favorite buzzword of my last year teaching was "digital native." You see, someone, somewhere, whose job it is to sit and create these ideas for teachers to argue as they attempt to determine which new fad is best for our students, decided that there is an actual difference in the brains of "us teachers" and "them students". They call the students digital natives. And the teachers? You guessed it--immigrants. The thinking behind this theory is that all of the fast paced technology constantly surrounding our students in their lives causes their brains to actually perform differently. They can multitask much easier than we can, they are used to having information at their fingertips at lightening speed, therefore making it difficult for them to READ and actually ANALYZE material in search of answers. They also have the attention span of gnats. This guy says it's because they were born with the internet, I say it's because they're twelve. But then, he probably has money and I'm broke.
So as we sat through endless meetings discussing our disadvantage as "immigrants" and our urgent need to embrace technology and learn to use it effectively so that we may learn to understand the inner workings of the adolescent minds around us, I stuffed my iPod earbuds in, started a text chat with a teacher friend in another county I happened to know was also in a meeting, and pulled out my marching band drill charts and lesson plans.
Waaaaaaait a minute...who you callin "immigrant"...son, I grew up with the internet. I was on AIM before these kids were born. I was in COLLEGE when facebook came out and was only for people in COLLEGE. These other guys are the ones that are Two Thousand and LATE. Not me.
That's what I thought, anyway, until my own child proved me wrong. As usual.
I mean, I was ok with her not knowing that cameras weren't always digital. Even though I was behind and didn't get my own until the summer she was "thought of", the technology had been around for awhile and it never bothered me when she asked to see pictures on the back of a disposable camera. I understand her need for that instant feedback.
Another event that cause me to believe that I was more native than I am occurred when I was visiting my best friend. She has one of those little "built in the wall phone stall" dohickies in her house, and when I was visiting her, we were saying how cute it would be to get a pretty antique phone and put in it (for looks, you know, cause who still has a landline?!) She then mentioned that she thought about putting her cordless phone in there (so apparently some people with security systems DO keep a landline), but there was no electrical outlet--just a phone jack.
We both stood there momentarily, me with my college degree for which the State pays me to educate young minds, and she, a medical student at a very good school, pondering this dilemma. We finally burst into hysterical laughter and began making fun of ourselves, because we each knew what the other was wondering--"How do you NOT plug something in? I mean, how does that even WORK?" I'm embarrassed to even type that, but I have to strengthen my case that I am NOT an immigrant.
My kid busted my pinata with one whack. My husband bought me some new records (yes, vinyl.) for Christmas, and I took them out to the record player in our entry room to try them out. Of course, the kid came with me and had a million questions, which I expected. I know she doesn't know what a record is. Why would she? Some people my own age probably never owned one. But the following conversation is what REALLY got me:
"Mommy, what's THAT?!"
"It's a record, pumpkin." I replied
"What's a record?" This question I expected.
"Well, baby, it's a thing that plays music out of this player, kind of like a CD." I thought this was a sufficient answer, and then she shot me in the heart. Are you ready for this? All babies of the 80's please remain seated for the following comment. I am not responsible for anything that results from your reading of this question:
"Mommy? What's a CD?"
That's it. Stick a fork in me... How do I even respond? I tried to collect my thoughts. I may as well start trying to explain to her how you don't plug something in. Or how to end world hunger.
"Ummm, well hunny..." More time, I need more time. I need Google. I need a shot of espresso. I can DO THIS. She finally bailed me out:
"Is it like an iPod?"
Look at me, trying to mask as a native while my two-year-old gives me a lesson in electronics.
She sealed the deal a couple of weeks ago. We were at mom's house and she was playing on my old upright piano in the basement. After an "inspiring" concert of "variation on twinkle, twinkle little star" that included lyrical arrangements of Jesus loves me, she ran into the room next door and hopped up on the computer desk chair and started going to town on the keyboard. This alarmed my mom.
"No! Gracie, what are you doing? You can't play a concert on Grammy's computer keyboard!"
The kid stopped mid-typing, and slowly turned her head toward my mom (who's pretty savvy around technology herself) and I swear she rolled her eyes.
"Grammy. I'm not playing a concert. I'm emailing my concert to someone."
Um. Well. Mom and I just looked at each other, rolling our own eyes so that we wouldn't have to admit defeat. But I think we were actually had. Offspring are good at that.
Before my child was a walking, talking prover of facts, I was convinced I was a digital native. On second consideration, I think I may have to admit a bit of immigration. I'm still sticking with the fact that it was a short move, because I refuse to be labeled with the illegal technological aliens out there.
Here's how it works:
1. Before (or during) you next meeting, in-service or staff development, prepare yourself by drawing a square. I find that 5' x 5' is a good size. Divide the card into columns, five across and five down. That will give you 25 one-inch blocks.
2. Write one of the following words/phrases in each block:
* no child left behind
* test scores
* core competencies
* standards of learning
* benchmarks
* proactive
* think outside the box
* action plan
* data base
* assessments
* knowledge base
* at the end of the day
* touch base
* mindset
* differentiated
* retention
* skills
* background knowledge
* effective learning
* exemplars
* implementation
* reflection
* writing process
* 21st Century Learning
* Problem solving
3. Check off the appropriate block when you hear one of those words/phrases.
4. When you get five blocks horizontally, vertically, or diagonally stand up and shout 'BULLCRAP!'
I got a real big kick out of this email, needless to say. I even copied it and passed it out to some friends at our next faculty senate meeting. You know, so that those of us who don't care about who's paying for the copy machine had something else to do.
ANYway...I say all this JUST to introduce my real point. (Completely unnecessary, I know, but I thought it was funny and it's my blog. If this were a paid publication, you would have seen my point much earlier. You're getting this hilarity for free, don't complain.)
My favorite buzzword of my last year teaching was "digital native." You see, someone, somewhere, whose job it is to sit and create these ideas for teachers to argue as they attempt to determine which new fad is best for our students, decided that there is an actual difference in the brains of "us teachers" and "them students". They call the students digital natives. And the teachers? You guessed it--immigrants. The thinking behind this theory is that all of the fast paced technology constantly surrounding our students in their lives causes their brains to actually perform differently. They can multitask much easier than we can, they are used to having information at their fingertips at lightening speed, therefore making it difficult for them to READ and actually ANALYZE material in search of answers. They also have the attention span of gnats. This guy says it's because they were born with the internet, I say it's because they're twelve. But then, he probably has money and I'm broke.
So as we sat through endless meetings discussing our disadvantage as "immigrants" and our urgent need to embrace technology and learn to use it effectively so that we may learn to understand the inner workings of the adolescent minds around us, I stuffed my iPod earbuds in, started a text chat with a teacher friend in another county I happened to know was also in a meeting, and pulled out my marching band drill charts and lesson plans.
Waaaaaaait a minute...who you callin "immigrant"...son, I grew up with the internet. I was on AIM before these kids were born. I was in COLLEGE when facebook came out and was only for people in COLLEGE. These other guys are the ones that are Two Thousand and LATE. Not me.
That's what I thought, anyway, until my own child proved me wrong. As usual.
I mean, I was ok with her not knowing that cameras weren't always digital. Even though I was behind and didn't get my own until the summer she was "thought of", the technology had been around for awhile and it never bothered me when she asked to see pictures on the back of a disposable camera. I understand her need for that instant feedback.
Another event that cause me to believe that I was more native than I am occurred when I was visiting my best friend. She has one of those little "built in the wall phone stall" dohickies in her house, and when I was visiting her, we were saying how cute it would be to get a pretty antique phone and put in it (for looks, you know, cause who still has a landline?!) She then mentioned that she thought about putting her cordless phone in there (so apparently some people with security systems DO keep a landline), but there was no electrical outlet--just a phone jack.
We both stood there momentarily, me with my college degree for which the State pays me to educate young minds, and she, a medical student at a very good school, pondering this dilemma. We finally burst into hysterical laughter and began making fun of ourselves, because we each knew what the other was wondering--"How do you NOT plug something in? I mean, how does that even WORK?" I'm embarrassed to even type that, but I have to strengthen my case that I am NOT an immigrant.
My kid busted my pinata with one whack. My husband bought me some new records (yes, vinyl.) for Christmas, and I took them out to the record player in our entry room to try them out. Of course, the kid came with me and had a million questions, which I expected. I know she doesn't know what a record is. Why would she? Some people my own age probably never owned one. But the following conversation is what REALLY got me:
"Mommy, what's THAT?!"
"It's a record, pumpkin." I replied
"What's a record?" This question I expected.
"Well, baby, it's a thing that plays music out of this player, kind of like a CD." I thought this was a sufficient answer, and then she shot me in the heart. Are you ready for this? All babies of the 80's please remain seated for the following comment. I am not responsible for anything that results from your reading of this question:
"Mommy? What's a CD?"
That's it. Stick a fork in me... How do I even respond? I tried to collect my thoughts. I may as well start trying to explain to her how you don't plug something in. Or how to end world hunger.
"Ummm, well hunny..." More time, I need more time. I need Google. I need a shot of espresso. I can DO THIS. She finally bailed me out:
"Is it like an iPod?"
Look at me, trying to mask as a native while my two-year-old gives me a lesson in electronics.
She sealed the deal a couple of weeks ago. We were at mom's house and she was playing on my old upright piano in the basement. After an "inspiring" concert of "variation on twinkle, twinkle little star" that included lyrical arrangements of Jesus loves me, she ran into the room next door and hopped up on the computer desk chair and started going to town on the keyboard. This alarmed my mom.
"No! Gracie, what are you doing? You can't play a concert on Grammy's computer keyboard!"
The kid stopped mid-typing, and slowly turned her head toward my mom (who's pretty savvy around technology herself) and I swear she rolled her eyes.
"Grammy. I'm not playing a concert. I'm emailing my concert to someone."
Um. Well. Mom and I just looked at each other, rolling our own eyes so that we wouldn't have to admit defeat. But I think we were actually had. Offspring are good at that.
Before my child was a walking, talking prover of facts, I was convinced I was a digital native. On second consideration, I think I may have to admit a bit of immigration. I'm still sticking with the fact that it was a short move, because I refuse to be labeled with the illegal technological aliens out there.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Wishing they were home for Christmas
It's been two years since my Grandparents left for Utah--something I don't talk about much, mostly because I'm supposed to be funny. That's how I usually handle the serious that life throws my way. You know, with humor. I cringe when people tell me of tragedy in their own lives. Partly because I feel for them, and partly because I cannot function in these situations without trying to make light of them.
Anyway, I haven't found anything remotely amusing about Granny and Pawpaw's relocation, so I just don't say anything. I've been thinking a lot about them since Christmas, because The Kid unintentionally broke my heart on Christmas Eve. It was our third Christmas that we didn't go to Granny and Pawpaw's house for Christmas Eve, and even though the last few were something of a ritual, I can't forget that it's what I'm supposed to be doing.
We were sitting at our house with Mom and Dad after a Christmas light drive with the kid, trying to create new traditions. We ate pizza and opened one present each. I strategically gave The Kid her package that "Big Pawpaw" sent her, because I had already peeked and knew they contained a pair of Christmas PJs that she would love to sleep in that night. I also figured that for me, it would be the only small way I could pretend they were here.
When I told her who gave them to her, her face lit up. "Big Pawpaw and Granny?! Awwwww...I think he would like to see me. And I would give Granny a hug so she'll feel better." She doesn't know that there isn't a cure for Alzheimer's, but I sure do wish a hug would do it. Or at least that I could be young enough to believe that it might. Or at the very least that my child could give it a try. It sure wouldn't hurt.
I sat there, soaking in these statements "from the mouth of a babe", and I just wanted to die. I didn't even know she knew (or remembered, since it was apparently mentioned to her at some point) that Granny was sick. I went to visit in May, and all I told her was who I was visiting and that she couldn't go because she was too little for the airplane. If only I could be as sensitive as my child, then I might begin to deal with some things.
My dad called Big Pawpaw to let The Kid thank him, and I know he couldn't hear a word she was saying, but my heart was longing for him to know her. She told him she would like to come and see him, but she was too big to fit on the airplane. So she may have been a little confused on the reason I gave her...it was still better than "You can't come with me because 1) I can't afford to buy you a ticket 2) I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up with everything and you in the airport in Atlanta when I have to change planes alone and 3) I don't want you to remember Granny sickly and dying when you didn't know her before."
I guess when she's older I'll be able to tell her all about them. I was never as close to them as I wanted to be or wished I was, and if I had known how quickly they would be gone, I would have tried even harder. Maybe this summer we'll go on some bike rides by their old house. I might even take her down to the boat docks to feed the ducks. I know her memories of them won't be her own, but maybe some day we can share mine. Until then, I hope I can learn to share my daughter's ability to know just the right thing to say.
Anyway, I haven't found anything remotely amusing about Granny and Pawpaw's relocation, so I just don't say anything. I've been thinking a lot about them since Christmas, because The Kid unintentionally broke my heart on Christmas Eve. It was our third Christmas that we didn't go to Granny and Pawpaw's house for Christmas Eve, and even though the last few were something of a ritual, I can't forget that it's what I'm supposed to be doing.
We were sitting at our house with Mom and Dad after a Christmas light drive with the kid, trying to create new traditions. We ate pizza and opened one present each. I strategically gave The Kid her package that "Big Pawpaw" sent her, because I had already peeked and knew they contained a pair of Christmas PJs that she would love to sleep in that night. I also figured that for me, it would be the only small way I could pretend they were here.
When I told her who gave them to her, her face lit up. "Big Pawpaw and Granny?! Awwwww...I think he would like to see me. And I would give Granny a hug so she'll feel better." She doesn't know that there isn't a cure for Alzheimer's, but I sure do wish a hug would do it. Or at least that I could be young enough to believe that it might. Or at the very least that my child could give it a try. It sure wouldn't hurt.
I sat there, soaking in these statements "from the mouth of a babe", and I just wanted to die. I didn't even know she knew (or remembered, since it was apparently mentioned to her at some point) that Granny was sick. I went to visit in May, and all I told her was who I was visiting and that she couldn't go because she was too little for the airplane. If only I could be as sensitive as my child, then I might begin to deal with some things.
My dad called Big Pawpaw to let The Kid thank him, and I know he couldn't hear a word she was saying, but my heart was longing for him to know her. She told him she would like to come and see him, but she was too big to fit on the airplane. So she may have been a little confused on the reason I gave her...it was still better than "You can't come with me because 1) I can't afford to buy you a ticket 2) I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up with everything and you in the airport in Atlanta when I have to change planes alone and 3) I don't want you to remember Granny sickly and dying when you didn't know her before."
I guess when she's older I'll be able to tell her all about them. I was never as close to them as I wanted to be or wished I was, and if I had known how quickly they would be gone, I would have tried even harder. Maybe this summer we'll go on some bike rides by their old house. I might even take her down to the boat docks to feed the ducks. I know her memories of them won't be her own, but maybe some day we can share mine. Until then, I hope I can learn to share my daughter's ability to know just the right thing to say.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ringing in the New Year "Alone"
Our plans for this fabulous evening kind of flopped and I've been in the funk all day anyway, so we're spending yet another fantastically exciting New Year's on the couch. Just another reminder (the day after my birthday, conveniently) that we're getting old. Well, I decided I was going to combat this funk with some "me" time. Hmmmmm...I have a portable DVD player and new bubble bath. Twilight and the tub were calling my name.
I arrive upstairs and am chatting with my newly neglected Matriarch cat while I park the DVD player on the sink. I reached down to start the bath water and realize I've been in this funk long enough to result in a really nasty film in the tub. Darn. There goes some of the joy of my me time, sucked right down the drain with the comet.
I finally got some scalding water running into the clean tub and was just about to start pouring the bubble bath when in bounded the offspring.
"Mommy! What are you DOING? I don't want to go to bed!"
"This isn't for you, it's for me." I replied.
"Are you going to take a shower?" She inquired.
"No, I'm going to take a bath." I answered.
"What?" This is how often I've had time to enjoy a bubble bath in the last three years. The concept is totally foreign to her.
"I'm going to watch!" She declared, quite proudly.
"Punkin, Mommy really wants to take a bath alone. And besides, this movie I'm watching will scare you." I mean, she's scared of Veggie Tales sometimes. Surely she won't endure Twilight, which was kind of the idea.
"That's ok, Mommy, I'll be alone with you." My hope of enjoying my bath was closely following the comet.
So I spent the next twenty minutes "enjoying" a bubble bath to the tune of Twilight in the background of a two year old "washing" me and throwing rubber ducks into my bubbles, accompanied by the intoxicating fragrance of "stress relief" mint bath foam. We ended our year's vacation with a "swim" in Bill and Connie's garden tub in our bathing suits, so I'm not sure why I expected to end the year any differently. Oh well, at least she's cute.
I arrive upstairs and am chatting with my newly neglected Matriarch cat while I park the DVD player on the sink. I reached down to start the bath water and realize I've been in this funk long enough to result in a really nasty film in the tub. Darn. There goes some of the joy of my me time, sucked right down the drain with the comet.
I finally got some scalding water running into the clean tub and was just about to start pouring the bubble bath when in bounded the offspring.
"Mommy! What are you DOING? I don't want to go to bed!"
"This isn't for you, it's for me." I replied.
"Are you going to take a shower?" She inquired.
"No, I'm going to take a bath." I answered.
"What?" This is how often I've had time to enjoy a bubble bath in the last three years. The concept is totally foreign to her.
"I'm going to watch!" She declared, quite proudly.
"Punkin, Mommy really wants to take a bath alone. And besides, this movie I'm watching will scare you." I mean, she's scared of Veggie Tales sometimes. Surely she won't endure Twilight, which was kind of the idea.
"That's ok, Mommy, I'll be alone with you." My hope of enjoying my bath was closely following the comet.
So I spent the next twenty minutes "enjoying" a bubble bath to the tune of Twilight in the background of a two year old "washing" me and throwing rubber ducks into my bubbles, accompanied by the intoxicating fragrance of "stress relief" mint bath foam. We ended our year's vacation with a "swim" in Bill and Connie's garden tub in our bathing suits, so I'm not sure why I expected to end the year any differently. Oh well, at least she's cute.
Oops...December got away
Wow. Joy Haser fussed at me last night for not writing (thanks, Joy, I needed that!) and I signed on to realize that I do indeed suck at life and have not written during the entire month of December. That is lame. Just want to throw that out there.
I guess the most interesting event for the month has been the new addition to our family. The offspring played us like a bunch of fools and was rewarded with a kitten for Christmas. Since Thanksgiving she has asked for nothing else. When I tried to convince her that Santa could not carry live animals on his sled and suggested she pick a special toy as a backup, she replied, "I don't really need any toys, Mommy, I already have a lot. All I really need is my own kitty." Player.
Friends tried to help:
Liz: "Gracie, you already have a kitty. What about Polly?"
Grace: "No, that's Mommy's kitty, I need my own."
Liz: "Well, you can have your own dog. Nobody else likes Daisy." (I'm sad to say that she nailed that one.)
Grace (complete with eyeroll): "I can't hold my big dog. I need a little kitty."
Thanks anyway, Liz.
So the days flew by (without any blogging) and I finally figured we were stuck and better get over to the pound. I realize the child doesn't have to have everything she wants, but it was real hard not to succumb when there was only one thing. Plus, I love cats. I mean, it's not like her request was for a pony or her own island in the Caribbean or something. So...the hunt began December 21 and ended with Diego on the 25th.
Who names a cat Diego? A two-year-old with a Dora fetish, that's who. How do you think Polly got her name? From her two-year-old previous owner, who apparently wanted a parrot. But in the grand scheme of things, Diego turned out to be a pretty good name considering all the alternatives.
See, the kid waited till Christmas Eve (after aforementioned male feline had already been secured from the local shelter, tested negative for aids/leukemia, and gone into hiding at Grammy's) to mention to us that she wanted a girl kitty. Through clenched teeth I muttered "You should have told Santa you wanted your kitty to be a girl!"
Christmas morning came, and when I heard the child waking up, I hurried to stuff the live present into its carrier and toss it under the tree. It hated this process and began screaming. Yes, I said screaming. And no, I didn't mean meowing. I ran the kid downstairs and she walked with wide eyes slowly toward the tree.
"What is that, Mommy?"
"I don't know, Santa brought it, what do you think it is?" I asked.
"A cat."
"Probably so!"
"I'm scared of it."
Awesome. Maybe we won't need to keep up the Santa charade if she's scared of the gifts he delivers. Christmas just got cheaper! We finally let Screaming Mimi out of his cage and do you know what the first thing she asked me was? (That is, after the initial shock and terror wore off.)
"Is it a girl kitty?"
"No, baby, you didn't tell Santa you wanted a girl until he already left the North Pole with this boy kitty. What should we name him?"
"Maggie." I spent the next thirty minutes combating every girl name she could throw at me and trying to steer her in the direction of boy names. It finally came to this:
"Honey, these names you're picking are all for girl kitties. Can't you think of any names a little boy might have?"
The answer was epic:
"Yeah...ummm...casserole."
Seriously? It's been months since we've even eaten a casserole. Where on earth does she come up with this stuff? It seems by popular opinion that we should have kept the name. I just didn't think I could do it. Luckily my mom talked her into naming some boy cartoons she watches, since her brain is apparently void of all possible choices of male names. On this prompt she responded with "Diego" so Diego he is.
I'm sure this event in our lives will prompt many blogs in the future. Hopefully something will prompt more than I wrote in December...
It'll be 2010 in a little while...let's try this again, shall we?
I guess the most interesting event for the month has been the new addition to our family. The offspring played us like a bunch of fools and was rewarded with a kitten for Christmas. Since Thanksgiving she has asked for nothing else. When I tried to convince her that Santa could not carry live animals on his sled and suggested she pick a special toy as a backup, she replied, "I don't really need any toys, Mommy, I already have a lot. All I really need is my own kitty." Player.
Friends tried to help:
Liz: "Gracie, you already have a kitty. What about Polly?"
Grace: "No, that's Mommy's kitty, I need my own."
Liz: "Well, you can have your own dog. Nobody else likes Daisy." (I'm sad to say that she nailed that one.)
Grace (complete with eyeroll): "I can't hold my big dog. I need a little kitty."
Thanks anyway, Liz.
So the days flew by (without any blogging) and I finally figured we were stuck and better get over to the pound. I realize the child doesn't have to have everything she wants, but it was real hard not to succumb when there was only one thing. Plus, I love cats. I mean, it's not like her request was for a pony or her own island in the Caribbean or something. So...the hunt began December 21 and ended with Diego on the 25th.
Who names a cat Diego? A two-year-old with a Dora fetish, that's who. How do you think Polly got her name? From her two-year-old previous owner, who apparently wanted a parrot. But in the grand scheme of things, Diego turned out to be a pretty good name considering all the alternatives.
See, the kid waited till Christmas Eve (after aforementioned male feline had already been secured from the local shelter, tested negative for aids/leukemia, and gone into hiding at Grammy's) to mention to us that she wanted a girl kitty. Through clenched teeth I muttered "You should have told Santa you wanted your kitty to be a girl!"
Christmas morning came, and when I heard the child waking up, I hurried to stuff the live present into its carrier and toss it under the tree. It hated this process and began screaming. Yes, I said screaming. And no, I didn't mean meowing. I ran the kid downstairs and she walked with wide eyes slowly toward the tree.
"What is that, Mommy?"
"I don't know, Santa brought it, what do you think it is?" I asked.
"A cat."
"Probably so!"
"I'm scared of it."
Awesome. Maybe we won't need to keep up the Santa charade if she's scared of the gifts he delivers. Christmas just got cheaper! We finally let Screaming Mimi out of his cage and do you know what the first thing she asked me was? (That is, after the initial shock and terror wore off.)
"Is it a girl kitty?"
"No, baby, you didn't tell Santa you wanted a girl until he already left the North Pole with this boy kitty. What should we name him?"
"Maggie." I spent the next thirty minutes combating every girl name she could throw at me and trying to steer her in the direction of boy names. It finally came to this:
"Honey, these names you're picking are all for girl kitties. Can't you think of any names a little boy might have?"
The answer was epic:
"Yeah...ummm...casserole."
Seriously? It's been months since we've even eaten a casserole. Where on earth does she come up with this stuff? It seems by popular opinion that we should have kept the name. I just didn't think I could do it. Luckily my mom talked her into naming some boy cartoons she watches, since her brain is apparently void of all possible choices of male names. On this prompt she responded with "Diego" so Diego he is.
I'm sure this event in our lives will prompt many blogs in the future. Hopefully something will prompt more than I wrote in December...
It'll be 2010 in a little while...let's try this again, shall we?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Of new babies and dogdom
A friend of mine who has two daughters around my pumpkin's age just had a new baby, so today I was explaining that she was just born and next time we saw them the baby wouldn't be in her mommy's belly anymore. This was examined thoroughly by the small one.
"Will she be little?" she inquired.
"Yes, she'll be very little."
"Can I play with her?"
"Not really. You know how Elijah's little sister just lays in her seat?" (This is what I refer to as the "hotdog" stage)
"Yeah..."
"Well, the new baby will do that, too. But we can still go look at her when she gets big enough to come home."
"And I can sing her a song and play with her toes?" Now she's getting it. I encouraged this and other age appropriate interactions for a few more minutes and then she decided she had more questions to clear up.
"Is the baby Ryleigh's sister?"
"Yep! You're right!" I answered.
"Where's your sister?" She continued.
"Mommy doesn't have a sister." I start sweating.
"Where's my sister?" Now I'm sweating profusely.
"You don't have a sister either." The child has already asked for puppies and kittens for Christmas. I'm sure a baby is about to be next, and I just don't feel like discussing that one with her. She spent so long coming up with this reply, I almost threw up:
"I do have a sister. My bear is my sister." Phew. Works for me! And we're right on to the next subject:
"Mommy, was I little?"
"Yes baby, you were almost as little as Ryleigh's new sister."
"Awwwww," she replied. Then followed with: "And I used to bark when I was a dog!"
Wow.
"Will she be little?" she inquired.
"Yes, she'll be very little."
"Can I play with her?"
"Not really. You know how Elijah's little sister just lays in her seat?" (This is what I refer to as the "hotdog" stage)
"Yeah..."
"Well, the new baby will do that, too. But we can still go look at her when she gets big enough to come home."
"And I can sing her a song and play with her toes?" Now she's getting it. I encouraged this and other age appropriate interactions for a few more minutes and then she decided she had more questions to clear up.
"Is the baby Ryleigh's sister?"
"Yep! You're right!" I answered.
"Where's your sister?" She continued.
"Mommy doesn't have a sister." I start sweating.
"Where's my sister?" Now I'm sweating profusely.
"You don't have a sister either." The child has already asked for puppies and kittens for Christmas. I'm sure a baby is about to be next, and I just don't feel like discussing that one with her. She spent so long coming up with this reply, I almost threw up:
"I do have a sister. My bear is my sister." Phew. Works for me! And we're right on to the next subject:
"Mommy, was I little?"
"Yes baby, you were almost as little as Ryleigh's new sister."
"Awwwww," she replied. Then followed with: "And I used to bark when I was a dog!"
Wow.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Trick or Treat!
The wonderful sugar high holiday we all used to love finally came for the little one. This is actually her third...but I don't think she was aware I was using her to get the goods the last two years...
We went on our traditional trick-or-treat through our neighborhood on Thursday. She went as a "mama" giraffe because I found the costume at the flea market for five dollars. Even though she wanted to be a monkey (that junk cost 25 dollars!!), she was adorable and had a great time anyway.
Our neighborhood was PACKED OUT. I bet close to 500 kids came to our house. I was very glad my mom joined us, because our little giraffe was almost trampled by a herd of big kids more times than I care to count. I felt like knocking a few of them out and yelling "HEY! We're walking here!" Maybe if I had made an example of just one...
And the sweet little giraffe had the best attitude about it. She was saying "excuse me" (and NOT in the same way I was saying it in my head.) to the hoodlums. She was going very carefully and saying "I have to wait my turn" while fifty middle school kids cut in front of her. While the other kids were running by so fast they could barely complete the phrase "trick-or-treat", Mama G was stopping on each old lady's porch to say "I like your pretty flowers." or (the best) "I like your pretty goose!" (You know the ones...they make clothes for them...)
My highlight of the evening (besides the massive amounts of candy scored!) was my little pumpkin reading a word. Seriously. We walked by a house that had blow up ghosts in the yard, and each ghost was holding a letter. As we walked past, she said "Mommy? Does that say 'Boo'?" After I collected myself off the sidewalk, I agreed that it did, indeed, say 'Boo'. Upon further investigation, my mom and I learned that the ghosts were holding the letter 'B' and after that came 'o,o'. Whoa. It was quite a moment. I kept waiting for something to ruin it, like a favorite comedian of mine who rejoiced over his toddler son's declaration of his wishes to be a doctor. In half a breath, the dad was crushed by the follow-up statement, "or a DINOSAUR!"
I drug my poor little accessory all over creation for the entire two hour trick-or-treat window. Five minutes prior to cut off time, we were already back in our block when I noticed a house we had missed with the light still on. I asked my sweetie if she wanted to go there before we went in and she replied:
"No mommy, that's ok. I have enough candy."
Who is raising this child? I mean, really.
We went on our traditional trick-or-treat through our neighborhood on Thursday. She went as a "mama" giraffe because I found the costume at the flea market for five dollars. Even though she wanted to be a monkey (that junk cost 25 dollars!!), she was adorable and had a great time anyway.
Our neighborhood was PACKED OUT. I bet close to 500 kids came to our house. I was very glad my mom joined us, because our little giraffe was almost trampled by a herd of big kids more times than I care to count. I felt like knocking a few of them out and yelling "HEY! We're walking here!" Maybe if I had made an example of just one...
And the sweet little giraffe had the best attitude about it. She was saying "excuse me" (and NOT in the same way I was saying it in my head.) to the hoodlums. She was going very carefully and saying "I have to wait my turn" while fifty middle school kids cut in front of her. While the other kids were running by so fast they could barely complete the phrase "trick-or-treat", Mama G was stopping on each old lady's porch to say "I like your pretty flowers." or (the best) "I like your pretty goose!" (You know the ones...they make clothes for them...)
My highlight of the evening (besides the massive amounts of candy scored!) was my little pumpkin reading a word. Seriously. We walked by a house that had blow up ghosts in the yard, and each ghost was holding a letter. As we walked past, she said "Mommy? Does that say 'Boo'?" After I collected myself off the sidewalk, I agreed that it did, indeed, say 'Boo'. Upon further investigation, my mom and I learned that the ghosts were holding the letter 'B' and after that came 'o,o'. Whoa. It was quite a moment. I kept waiting for something to ruin it, like a favorite comedian of mine who rejoiced over his toddler son's declaration of his wishes to be a doctor. In half a breath, the dad was crushed by the follow-up statement, "or a DINOSAUR!"
I drug my poor little accessory all over creation for the entire two hour trick-or-treat window. Five minutes prior to cut off time, we were already back in our block when I noticed a house we had missed with the light still on. I asked my sweetie if she wanted to go there before we went in and she replied:
"No mommy, that's ok. I have enough candy."
Who is raising this child? I mean, really.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Cat in the Car
Yesterday was a busy day with many errands to run and preparations made for the Husband and me to go out of town this weekend. (Still not finished with that, but had to tell this story!) While waiting in line for one such errand, the two-year-old native became restless, so I proudly produced my iPod for her to play Peek-a-Boo Barn. (Because every once in a while I get smart about this parenting thing and prepare ahead.)
For all of the non-parents and parents of children old enough to enjoy actual games, this one involves a barn with a "knock, knock" sound, followed by an animal sound, at which point the child is supposed to guess the animal name before using the touch screen to slide the barn door open and check their answer. Of course, my child never takes the time to guess an animal because she is too busy sliding her finger back and forth as fast as she can between animals to get the door open as quick as possible. But it was a good thought on the distraction thing, right?
Back to the errand, we finished up and headed to the parking lot. I strapped the child in to her car seat and climbed back over the passenger seat to get out of my two door VW Beetle and walked around the car. I flopped with the weariness of an errand running mom into my seat and started the engine. All the sudden I heard "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" coming from somewhere in the general direction of my hood. I slammed the key back over as quickly as possible, but I immediately began to feel my stomach lurch. I knew I had just made cat salad under the hood of my car, and that's not what I had in mind for lunch.
I could still hear the cries when I cut the engine. Relieved that the cat was only mangled and not dead, I thought maybe it was just UNDER the car. So I jumped out and looked. No cat. I got back in the car. Still a cat crying. I got back out. I heard the child call "Mommy! What are you doing??" Checking the trunk, of course. Because a wayward cat could definitely navigate its way into my trunk! What have I been teaching this child that she can't understand her mother's illogical thought process?? My thorough search of my trunk and all of its contents produced no cat. (Throw me a bone here and at least ACT surprised, will you?)
I got back in the car, and to my dismay, heard once again the cry of that deranged feline. I was starting to think I had lost my mind, when the child finally said something that made me feel better. "Mommy? Is that a cat?" Phew. She hears it too. There was one last search I hadn't ventured yet, so in the spirit of Austin Powers (why not?) I popped the hood and got back out.
When you pop the hood of a new Beetle, it's almost like a funny joke. The hood opens a little, and the release latch pops itself out at you. With the qualities on the front end of the car already being face-like, this action causes the car to look like it stuck its tongue out at you. I giggle every time, including this one. (In fact, I'm convinced that one day I'm going to break down in the worst of circumstances and the highway patrol is going to find me along the side of a dark highway clutching my revolver and giggling hysterically at my release latch. Please bail me out when this happens.)
After a nice fit of giggles, I began to picture a really mad cat cooped up under my hood and his reaction to my reaching for said release latch. I held my breath and stood as far back as was possible for me to still clasp the latch, and with much reserve, threw the hood open. This produced another fit of giggles, because I started to realize the absurdity of the suggestion that a cat might fit under my hood. A piece of paper can't fit under the hood of that thing. And yet, here I am, peering under and wondering what I'm going to say when some nice stranger comes and asks if I need help.
I stood very still and listened hard. No meowing. Hmmmm. I can only hear the cat when I'm inside the car, and I can't see it anywhere outside the car. Somewhere in my life I was taught to reason that these facts meant the cat was in the car.
No way. I'm crazy, but I'm not blind. I refused to believe a cat climbed in my car without my knowing it. However, I had run out options, so I closed the hood and slid back in the car. "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" I leaned over to look in the floorboard of the passenger side. I couldn't believe I was actually looking there. I listened a second, because it seemed louder from that position. I also noticed that the cat had perfect rhythm...and that it was apparently meowing AND knocking...on my purse...
I dug through my purse on the passenger's seat and pulled out the iPod and turned off Peek-a-Boo Barn. The worst part? My child laughing at me hysterically from the back seat. Ok, I guess she was laughing with me...but she didn't stop there. She went right ahead and kindly stole my story.
That's right. My two year old infringed on my copyright. We took lunch to her Daddy (Ha! I just realized I could say my child came from the mailman...oh...that's GOOD.) and as we sat picnicking on the sidewalk of his mail route, I began a dramatic reenactment of the event. I wasn't even to the trunk yet when the Small One barged in and threw out the punch line:
"And mommy got in the car and outta the car and in the car and the kitty said "meow" and mommy looked and guess what daddy? IT WAS THE HIPOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA PEEK-A-BOO BARN SAID MEOW!" She laughed out loud hysterically as I sat, stunned, wondering if my own mother used to be a wonderful story teller until I barged in and took over her stage.
She always has been my "first baby of the stage." I guess we're in for a wilder ride than I originally guessed.
For all of the non-parents and parents of children old enough to enjoy actual games, this one involves a barn with a "knock, knock" sound, followed by an animal sound, at which point the child is supposed to guess the animal name before using the touch screen to slide the barn door open and check their answer. Of course, my child never takes the time to guess an animal because she is too busy sliding her finger back and forth as fast as she can between animals to get the door open as quick as possible. But it was a good thought on the distraction thing, right?
Back to the errand, we finished up and headed to the parking lot. I strapped the child in to her car seat and climbed back over the passenger seat to get out of my two door VW Beetle and walked around the car. I flopped with the weariness of an errand running mom into my seat and started the engine. All the sudden I heard "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" coming from somewhere in the general direction of my hood. I slammed the key back over as quickly as possible, but I immediately began to feel my stomach lurch. I knew I had just made cat salad under the hood of my car, and that's not what I had in mind for lunch.
I could still hear the cries when I cut the engine. Relieved that the cat was only mangled and not dead, I thought maybe it was just UNDER the car. So I jumped out and looked. No cat. I got back in the car. Still a cat crying. I got back out. I heard the child call "Mommy! What are you doing??" Checking the trunk, of course. Because a wayward cat could definitely navigate its way into my trunk! What have I been teaching this child that she can't understand her mother's illogical thought process?? My thorough search of my trunk and all of its contents produced no cat. (Throw me a bone here and at least ACT surprised, will you?)
I got back in the car, and to my dismay, heard once again the cry of that deranged feline. I was starting to think I had lost my mind, when the child finally said something that made me feel better. "Mommy? Is that a cat?" Phew. She hears it too. There was one last search I hadn't ventured yet, so in the spirit of Austin Powers (why not?) I popped the hood and got back out.
When you pop the hood of a new Beetle, it's almost like a funny joke. The hood opens a little, and the release latch pops itself out at you. With the qualities on the front end of the car already being face-like, this action causes the car to look like it stuck its tongue out at you. I giggle every time, including this one. (In fact, I'm convinced that one day I'm going to break down in the worst of circumstances and the highway patrol is going to find me along the side of a dark highway clutching my revolver and giggling hysterically at my release latch. Please bail me out when this happens.)
After a nice fit of giggles, I began to picture a really mad cat cooped up under my hood and his reaction to my reaching for said release latch. I held my breath and stood as far back as was possible for me to still clasp the latch, and with much reserve, threw the hood open. This produced another fit of giggles, because I started to realize the absurdity of the suggestion that a cat might fit under my hood. A piece of paper can't fit under the hood of that thing. And yet, here I am, peering under and wondering what I'm going to say when some nice stranger comes and asks if I need help.
I stood very still and listened hard. No meowing. Hmmmm. I can only hear the cat when I'm inside the car, and I can't see it anywhere outside the car. Somewhere in my life I was taught to reason that these facts meant the cat was in the car.
No way. I'm crazy, but I'm not blind. I refused to believe a cat climbed in my car without my knowing it. However, I had run out options, so I closed the hood and slid back in the car. "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!" I leaned over to look in the floorboard of the passenger side. I couldn't believe I was actually looking there. I listened a second, because it seemed louder from that position. I also noticed that the cat had perfect rhythm...and that it was apparently meowing AND knocking...on my purse...
I dug through my purse on the passenger's seat and pulled out the iPod and turned off Peek-a-Boo Barn. The worst part? My child laughing at me hysterically from the back seat. Ok, I guess she was laughing with me...but she didn't stop there. She went right ahead and kindly stole my story.
That's right. My two year old infringed on my copyright. We took lunch to her Daddy (Ha! I just realized I could say my child came from the mailman...oh...that's GOOD.) and as we sat picnicking on the sidewalk of his mail route, I began a dramatic reenactment of the event. I wasn't even to the trunk yet when the Small One barged in and threw out the punch line:
"And mommy got in the car and outta the car and in the car and the kitty said "meow" and mommy looked and guess what daddy? IT WAS THE HIPOD! HAHAHAHAHAHA PEEK-A-BOO BARN SAID MEOW!" She laughed out loud hysterically as I sat, stunned, wondering if my own mother used to be a wonderful story teller until I barged in and took over her stage.
She always has been my "first baby of the stage." I guess we're in for a wilder ride than I originally guessed.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What's Your Name?
Since we moved we have been hopping around from church to church, still looking for a place to call home. This suits our little social butterfly just fine. Each new nursery or Sunday School class we take her to is a new chance for her to throw us out of the room. She loves this.
While we embark on this journey, we are trying to take the opportunity to teach our little pumpkin the "polite" way to address and speak to adults. She will chatter anyone who will stand still to their grave, but sometimes it happens much like a drive by shooting. She speaks rather well for her age, so she doesn't understand why people can't understand her spewing out a paragraph at top speed as she runs past.
Part of the etiquette she clearly needs to learn is to stand still and slow down. Since her mouth is generally about four feet away from the receiving ear, we've also been working on looking way up as she speaks. She's picking all this up pretty well, and she LOVES to talk to anyone who will listen, so we thought, hey-why not add a few conversation starters in there while we're at it. I mean, how cool is a two-year-old who can say "so, Mr. Jones, what do you do for a living?"
She constantly asks me "Who's that?", so I thought an age appropriate conversation skill would be to ask someone their name. I thought we had this down tonight at home group when some new people came and she walked right up to a college boy and said, "Hey! What's your name?" He answered accordingly and she came back with "I'm Gracie. I'm two and I have a pretty dress on."
Is she hitting on a college kid!? Lord!
A while later, she finally moved on to a little boy her own age (phew) and that we actually already know. I can't expect her to get it all right so soon:
"HEY! Elijah! What's YOUR name?!" Daddy found this quite hilarious.
While we embark on this journey, we are trying to take the opportunity to teach our little pumpkin the "polite" way to address and speak to adults. She will chatter anyone who will stand still to their grave, but sometimes it happens much like a drive by shooting. She speaks rather well for her age, so she doesn't understand why people can't understand her spewing out a paragraph at top speed as she runs past.
Part of the etiquette she clearly needs to learn is to stand still and slow down. Since her mouth is generally about four feet away from the receiving ear, we've also been working on looking way up as she speaks. She's picking all this up pretty well, and she LOVES to talk to anyone who will listen, so we thought, hey-why not add a few conversation starters in there while we're at it. I mean, how cool is a two-year-old who can say "so, Mr. Jones, what do you do for a living?"
She constantly asks me "Who's that?", so I thought an age appropriate conversation skill would be to ask someone their name. I thought we had this down tonight at home group when some new people came and she walked right up to a college boy and said, "Hey! What's your name?" He answered accordingly and she came back with "I'm Gracie. I'm two and I have a pretty dress on."
Is she hitting on a college kid!? Lord!
A while later, she finally moved on to a little boy her own age (phew) and that we actually already know. I can't expect her to get it all right so soon:
"HEY! Elijah! What's YOUR name?!" Daddy found this quite hilarious.
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