oatmeal in the nose

Nope. No one stuffed anything in any orifice.

But, Graham thinks that he might have. Since this morning, when he ate oatmeal, Graham has repeated, "Mommy, oatmeal (oh-me-ahl) nose," and pointed at his nose. I checked and saw none, and decided that (oh-me-ahl) must mean something else. But, he has persisted, and I have since discovered that he is coming down with a cold. So I asked him, "You think that there is oatmeal IN your nose?"

"Yes. Towel please."

"You want me to get the oatmeal out of your nose with a towel?"

"Yes, mommy."

I wiped his nose, and we called it a day.

Sara and Clara, meet Charlie and Casper

Apparently our wild and wonderful (almost) four-year-old has extended her powers of imagination to entertain not only herself, but also her young brother. I just heard Greta ask Graham, "Graham, are you ready to come play with Charlie and Casper with us?" Of course he was. He followed her around while she gave him instructions, including a time for "shadow class."

We have been told that Greta and Graham are both Shadow people. They can turn into Shadow people whenever they want to play with Sara, Clara, Casper and Charlie.

It seems to be a terrific excuse for Greta to talk even more than she already does.

gifting angst

I'm thinking about gifts/ giving. (Duh.) What do I give my children for Christmas? What should my children give to their aunties and uncles, grandparents, friends? I'd love to be Martha Stewart and be magically able to craft something lovely with minimal mess that says, "I thought of you enough to craft you this useful, clever, and at the same time darling little votive candle, scented with cloves and orange peel. I want you to know that you are sort of special, but moreso that I have outwitted the whole holiday commercial machine and managed to trick you into thinking that I gave you a 'gift' when it's really just my excess ear wax and an old toilet paper roll that you have taken off my hands."

But, I'm not crafty. Nor am I really all that clever. And it's not really true that it's the thought that counts. Nope. It's the message that the gift sends, or the the thought behind the gift that counts, right? Like when you receive large underwear for Christmas. The thought must be, "I think that your butt must be too big for the underwear you wear these days." (That didn't actually happen to me. Well, it was not underwear.)

My mother has given me some choice gifts that I think speak to the fact that she thinks that I'm a HUGE dork. HUGE.

Item #1: K-mart jeans. Route 66 brand. This happened a few years ago, so the exact pair is, sadly no longer on the website. So, let me add that I did indeed try them on and found that they went above my navel.

Item #2: mother'daughter sleepwear from Lanz of Salzburg. My mother gave this to me when I was 10 days postpartum. She gave my ten-day-old infant a 2t nightgown and me a large one. Even at the time, you could have fit me and a whole preschool class under that nightgown. And, lest yout think that I must have some secret penchant for granny sleepwear, I do not. When I was seven, I did like my "Laura Ingalls" style nightgown that came with a little matching red hat. But, I gave it up LONG, LONG ago.

Item #3: http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif href="http://cgi.ebay.com/Porcelain-Girl-Doll-Hilary-Wimbledon-Collection_W0QQitemZ290186794618QQihZ019QQcategoryZ2394QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem">A porcelain Hilary doll. I can't explain this one. It must have been before the day of the easy shopping gift card rack at the grocery store. I have never collected porcelain dolls. My mom "said" that it was for Hillary Clinton. The doll has nothing to do with the first lady.

Perhaps this is where my gift-buying angst originates. I know first-hand what it's like to be tortured as a gift-recipient. What do you say when you open such gifts? Thanks? Do you have the receipt? FUCK you? (My mother, Momologue Sr. does not have the address or knowledge of this blog, thus this post will remain until the said woman discovers it.) Or, do you just retaliate with equally tacky gifts? I gave away the jeans to Salvation Army. I refused to even take the nightgown home. The rumor is that my mother regifted it to my aunt. I have the porcelain doll in my basement. And, I think that I'm going to give it to Greta this year.

Dear Santa

Greta and Graham sat on Santa last night. Graham smiled. but refused to speak. Greta spoke. She told Santa that she wants a bike. Yes, a bike. This was news to us. Up to this point, she had told me that she was going to ask Santa for fruit snacks and a whole bunch of candy. I think that her three-year-old logic is that she might as well go for the stuff that she knows she won't be getting out of mom and dad. I mentioned to her that even if Santa brought her that, she wouldn't be allowed to eat it all at once, she decided she'd maybe ask for a toy. Santa only brings one toy to our house. I don't like excess stuff (O.K. This is a ridiculous claim because my home is one big vat of excess stuff, but I don't have any room for excess on top of my excess.) The truth? I don't like Santa getting all of the credit.

And, there's a little more truth about the bike. Marc uncovered it last night. My plan was to give Greta and Graham a puppet stage for Christmas. Why? Because I like to play with puppets. In line waiting to sit on Santa, Greta turned to me and said, "Mom. I'm going to ask Santa for something REALLY great. Somthing that you're going to like a lot."

I thought, and asked, "A puppet stage? I really would like that."

Greta looked surprised. I'm realtively certain that she was going to say someting more like chocolate. But, she went with my suggestion. "Sure. I'll ask for a puppet stage."

But, I could see that her heart wasn't in it. I had planted it. I felt guilt that I was somehow stealing her one gift from Santa. So, I siad, "Isn't there anything else?"

"Ummm. No."

Then it came out of my mouth. "What about a bike?"

A bike? Greta has yet to master her tricycle. She's really great at lots of stuff, but she's really bad at riding her trike. And, she doesn't much enjoy it either. She continually drives it into the grass and gets stuck. The other day she tried her friend's big girl bike with training wheels. She kept pedalling backwards, activating the brakes. No good.

It spun out of conrol. A bike became her utmost desire. And, her turn was next on Santa. And he's bringing a bike.

Later I asked Graham what Santa was going to bring for him. "Bike," he said, clear as the day.

Make that two bikes, and no puppet stage.

shadow girls

In my newest parenting read, _Your Four Year Old: Wild and Wonderful_, I read that four is a common time for imaginary friends to surface. (A brief aside to note that there really isn't anything so very wonderful about 'wild' as an adjective to describe a person living in my home.) I chuckled thinking that we had dodged that bullet. I mean, it's sort of cute and all, but mostly creepy to think of my kid talking to imaginary people. Greta now has two imaginary friends, Sara and Clara. This morning, the chased each other, went to swimming lessons with Greta on the living room rug, played hospital with her, and told jokes. One might think that a person talking to a set of imaginary people would hush her voice, perhaps to hide this secret behavior, a la the dude in Harvey. Nope. Greta's voice gets upped twenty or so decibels when she talks to the girls. I tried to join the fun, to no avail. When I tried to tickle and joke with Sara and Clara, I was told that they weren't in the room. Greta said, "Do you know why mom? THey are shadow girls. And, I am a shadow girl, so then I know where they are. But, you are NOT a shadow girl, so you don't know them." I think tomorrow we might talk about how quiet shadows are.

I love squirrels.

This may come as news to some who have known me for many years. I hereby renounce my former hatred of squirrels. True, they are pesky animals who will steal your Christmas bulbs right off the string, rip through your plastic garbage bags at night, eat full muffins in front of you while you scrounge for spare change in your pockets listening to your stomach growl. But, I no longer see this as evidence of evil, merely mischief. I misread the squirrel.

And, this is no spur of the moment decision. For over a week now I have been a squirrel fan . . . ever since I realized that a certain squirrel living in or around my yard has my back.

Greta had a few "bad days" at school a few weeks ago. On one particular day, i recieved news that she had behaved, "wild." Wild? My child? With gentle questioning at night I uncovered the truth of some of her behaviors. I told her a story about a little bear who went to school and got so excited to see some friends that she decided to do some funny stuff that made the teachers frustrated, but made her friends laugh. Then I stopped, and asked, "Hmmm. i just can't think of what Little Bear might have done, Greta. What kind of crazy thing could she have done?" As long as she was pegging it on Little Bear, Greta had no problem being forthcoming about goofball behavior. She replied,"She used the toothbrush to brush her teeth."

I saw where she was going and asked,"Do you mean the toothbrush that the children are supposed to use to wash dirty squirrels with?"

"Yes. And she sat on a puzzle."

"I see. So she did the wrong thing with all of the things in the classroom."

"Yes. And the children laughed."

So, my daughter ratted herself out as the true dirty squirrel of this classroom. I told her that I was sad and disappointed. And, Greta decided that she didn't like school anymore. She refused to go. Then, she had a day when I brought her and she refused to stop crying. She missed her mommy. She couldn't possibly go to school.

Day Three rolled around, and as we were walking out to the car, Greta beckoned me over to see a plump squirrel at the base of a tree in our yard. I got an idea -- no, it was more like the squirrel itself telepathically sent me an idea. "Hi, Sneaky," I said. (Thus far, both of my children and a few confused adults believe that I believe that we are always talking to the SAME squirrel when see a squirrel. I refer to him as Sneaky. When "Sneaky" is with other squirrels, he is with his mother, father, brother Nutty, or friend Shady. Shady is a black squirrel.)

Sneaky played right along and nodded his little squirrel head as he MADE EYE CONTACT with me.

"Sneaky, what's going on?"

Nod nod, click click.

"You're on your way to school? Oh really? You go to the squirrel Montessori right by Greta's? Wow. Do you like it?"

Nod nod.

"You do? That's great. Yeah. Greta loves it too. Sure she can look for you there when she's on the playground."

Stare.

Greta, in a tine voice, joined in," Yes, we go outside."

Nod.

"OK. So you're waiting for your mom to bring you? Well, I'm going to bring Greta there right now. Go ahead and get your mom."

And Sneaky ran half way up the tree, paused, and nodded a goodbye.

"Bye Sneaks. See you at school."

This remarkable swuirrel left no small impression on Greta, who then pegged me with questions concerning squirrel school logistics on the ride there. And, Greta did not cry at school that day and was not a "squirrel" either. There is already a squirrel at Montessori, the brilliant Sneaky. I think that his last name might be Doolittle.

Eat it, Dee-Dah

Graham has a new game. It evolved out of my early morning attempts to keep Graham in my bed, thus me snug under my covers. We had exhausted "reading" books that Marc and I are able to recite with our eyes still in "resting" position. And, Graham was hungry. He was asking for, "Bol Rai-rais and ghush" (translation: a bowl of raisins and juice.) I told Graham that we could play "pretend cooking" and pantomimed opening a refrigerator, pouring out juice, and giving it to Graham to drink. He bought it and asked for, "More?" Next, I told him to cook something for me, and I received an imaginary juice. (Delicious.) Then, he flew with it, saying, "Peetza? Sky?" I wasn't sure, so I had to verify, "You want me to cook pizza in the sky for you?" "Yeah." So, I did. But, he fed it to his Aunt Betsy, lovingly referred to as DeeDah. He held up his little hand into the air, ahem, I mean sky, jabbed at an invisible face and said, "Eat it, DeeDah."

Junior Police or Junior Feminist?

Greta: Mom, can girls be polices?

Me: Yes, Greta. There are women police officers.

Greta: Because the police who came to my school is a boy. He's not a girl police.

Me: Yes. That's just one person. Some of the police are women. In fact, didn't you get a badge? It says Junior Police on it. You are a junior police.

Greta: (going berzerk in volume, expression, and gestures): I'm a police. I'm a police. I'm a police.


Yes. Greta is a badge-carrying member of the Junior Police force of A.H. It has been interesting to see what exactly she thinks that means. She does recall that the police (her choice of an inappropriate plural, my choice to not correct) talked to her about, "safety and UNsafety." She knows that going with strangers in "unsafety."

And, that's where the practical application of this obviously thrilling visit from a police officer to her pre-school class ends. The rest of her energies in playing Junior police have been focused on elaborate rescuing. I like to think that the police officer did not tell the children that, "sometimes I rescue mommies and daddies who are dead." More likely, this sprouted out of a vivid three-year-old imagination. Yesterday, I could hear her yelling at her toys, "A bus is driving and a one-year-old boy fall out of the bus. He is out of the bus. The polices are going to rescue him." I'm choosing to view this as Greta's fantasy of being a hero, and not her fantasy of an infortunate demise of a certain adorable one-year-old boy (cough: Graham).

I have to add that I'm thrilled that the game that we are playing is police/ rescue and not stranger/ kidnap. (Pause while I knock on wood.) When Greta saw Sleeping Beauty this summer she delighted in acting out the story. The cast of characters were Sleeping Beauty: Mommy, Prince: Dad, or anyone else around, not excluding the cat, Maleficent: Greta, Maleficent's black crow: Graham. Admittedly, I had a hand in the crow casting because I pointed out that Graham could caw well (he could). To this day, Greta tells me that her favorite "guy" in Sleeping Beauty is Maleficent.

Should I worry? I have to admit that concern bubbles up when recollecting Maleficent transforming into a giant fire-breathing dragon and spouting, "Now, shall you deal with ME, O Prince - and all the powers of HELL! AHAHAHAHAHA, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" That's not so unlike Greta during a tantrum, which is scary. Then again, I was the mother who wasn't going to allow my daughter to watch the misogynistic Disney princesses. So, shouldn't I applaud this outright rejection of the pansy-ass Aurora? Granted, I would prefer her to adore the three bumbling fairies, but this Maleficent-love is better than identifying with a girl whose main role is to touch a needle and sleep. Ugh. Andyet, I spin out of control worrying. What's next? She'll watch _Little House on the Prarie_ with me . . . and love Nellie Olsen. She'll read _Pride and Prejudice_ . . . and profess her love for Wickham. She'll wish that Goneril and Regan were her girlfriends so that they can commisserate over their horrible parents. It truly pains me.

But, now I feel there is hope of turning this trainride around. Thank the LORD for women polices.

I'm DEFINITELY voting for Hillary.

Graham's first joke

Graham is experiencing a language explosion. Everyday he's saying new things to me that I didn't even know he understood, let alone knew how to say. It's super fun. As I type he is talking to "own puppy," a little plastic dog that yelps when pulled by a string, about going to "Ema's house." Earlier today he told Greta, "Top (stop), Geta. Day-jrous. (Dangerous.)" Perhaps Graham knows a hidden danger to walking down the sidewalk. More likely, he was repeating what he had heard me say about crossing the street.

He also told his first joke. Greta's first joke was a one-liner, and come to think of it, falls right in line with her current sense of humor about the peculiarness of certain words. She turned to my mom and me and said, "San Diego." Her grandmother went berzerk at this little blonde saying San Diego with perfect pronunciation. And, Gret found that saying San Diego to many folks would bring about a chuckle.

Graham's first joke came about, of course, as an attempt to copy his sister. Greta was repeating, "ice-cream social," after a pre-school party, which was not an ice-cream social but brought up memories of an ice-cream social for a three-year-old. So, Graham joined in in his sloppy speech saying, "i-keen soshall." Hee hee. Then, he upped the ante. He was eating a bowl of mac and cheese and said, "noonie (noodle) soshall." This brought down the house, consisting of all four of us. So, he upped it again, turned to his dad and said, "pizza soshall."

It was really very funny . . . at least the first five or so times. We hoping that he adds to his repertoire soon.

Be afraid.

They are watching us.



I recently added a post that I started before I had finished and published other posts, so it showed up much earlier. I'm not so proud of it, and I consider it incomplete, for the record. The gist of it is a self-deprecating mockery of bloggery. (Or, was it a self-blogging deprecation of mockery? I forget.)

But, lo and behold, the very next time after mocking the blogging that I log on to blahg, I find this link to a "blog action day wrap" on the blogoshpere.

Can anyone tell me if this is real or a joke?

Blogospere. Blogosphere. I must take just another moment in my awkward transition to this new form of expression to pose a question in my blahg: What? Are there truly people who say, type, think this word with a straight face?

To laugh: the American Dream (All titles are better with colons. Ask all the smartypants academics.)

I think that life is easier for funny people. People like you when you're funny. Funny people take the edge off -- they release the endorphins for you. I am happy for my daughter that she seems to have a sense of humor. I'm not sure where she got it -- not from me. Oh sure, I appreciate humor, and I work at it -- often too hard. I have been known, by some, to kill a good joke with my enthusiasm. My wit never really seems to elicit more than the chuckle. Don't get me wrong; I can get people to laugh, just not with a joke. Retelling embarassing and/or ridiculous events of my life tend to be the way to go for me. I think this really does comment on my ability to find and deliver a joke.

Granted, like the successful American dream, I have more comedic success than my mother, Momologue Sr. Case in point: I recently found out that when she was in college she thought that it was a hoot to scream out her dorm window into the quad below. What, you might ask, would be funny to scream out a dorm window? CROTCH. She reports that it was an "edgy" term in the late sixties. And, apparently, screaming it out of her dorm window was blissfully hysterical. Thankfully, I can report that she was not alone; she had a pack of likeminded young women who delighted in this bizarre behavior.

O.K. Now here is where I must drop the flabergasted act and confess that my college friends and I are guilty of screaming, "Sucks to be you. We're in a car," out a car window at the walkers trudging up Bascom Hill. We were giddy to be riding and not walking through the Wisconsin winter. We did not, however, yell CROTCH or any other "edgy" term. I mean, come on. We knew that our behavior was juvenile, but we were in a moving target. No one knew who we were. Momologue Sr. yelled it out of her dorm window. And, to boot, more than one time. I can just imagine the passersby strolling through the quad only to be assaulted with, "CROTCH." They stop, look up at the window, and say, "Oh I guess that Peg is in an edgy mood again. She'll probably be wearing black in the dining hall today."

So, on the sliding scale of humor, I'm probably a step above my mom. Greta, at the ripe age of three and a half, seems likely to score even higher. As a game on a recent car ride, I asked her to think of funny names for a town. Without missing a beat she said, "Nougat. Nougat would be a funny name for a town. Hi, I'm from Nougat." Her next town was, "Barnesandnoble." Not so funny? Perhaps it was the delivery for that one that made me laugh. I'm not sure. But, she didn't scream it out the window.

CROTCH.

Sunny Day

Do you know Big Bird's alias? I do. He's Sunny Day. At least, that's what Graham calls him. He must have recently learned this information because he used to say Bi Buh for Big Bird, but now he emphatically insists that Big Bird is Sunny Day. Actually, his version is a sort of mix between "any day" and "honey day" and always follows the cadence from the beginning of the theme song.

I think that it's the creepy Elmo Knows Your Name doll that told him about Sunny Day. I mean it. That doll TALKS whenever it wants to. I have walked into the playroom on multiple occasions to find Elmo telling Graham that it's time for bed or a nap, or just singing, "Good Night, friend." It's frightening. I urge you to go to the link and listen to Elmo say your name.

Truly, this robo-Elmo has blown Big Bird's cover. Big Bird, formerly known as the fluffy, happy, over-grown five-year old, is really Sunny Day, the drug dealer of Sesame Street. That's why he's omnipresent on the show. You can't take a break with a job like that. Now, I know that this is sort of sacrilege, and I'm a fan of the show, but follow this along with me and you too will be scared at how far-reaching this alias-theory can go. Who is Sunny Day's source? Where do the drugs come from? SNUFALUFAGUS, the creature with the uncanny ability to see but not be seen, provides him with "the stuff." Big Bird is always out on "the Street" and helping people to find "the Street" of Sesame. Every day Sunny Day (Big Bird) palys Journey to Ernie, or is it Journey to Bernie? And who is the biggest addict? Elmo. You know it. It explains everything from the voice to the bizarro "house" in his "world." (Greta once said while watching the Elmo's World song, "Oh, I guess HIS mommy lets him draw on the walls.) It explains his moon walking on the real moon and the various animals and inanimate objects that talk to Elmo. And, it explains why Graham is on to Mr. Sunny Day; Elmo told him.

Not convinced? Either way, Graham repeats "sunny day," endlessly. It's a convenient answer to a question:
Graham, do you want Mommy to sing a song? Sunny Day.
Should we read a book? Yeah, Sunny Day.
Do you want Mommy to pick you up? Sunny Day.
Are you hungry? Sunny Day.

It's also a great conversation starter:
Daddy, sunny day.

Today, at Graham's behest, I tapped into an previously unknown resevoir of Sesame Street Lyrics. I found myself singing the theme song:

Sunny Day
Sweepin' the clouds away
On my way to where the air is sweet

Can you tell me how to get,
How to get to Sesame Street

Come and play
Everything's A-OK
Friendly neighbors there
That's where we meet

Can you tell me how to get
How to get to Sesame Street

It's a magic carpet ride
Every door will open wide To Happy people like you--
Happy people like
What a beautiful

Well, this "magic carpet ride" (case in point -- MAGIC? Ride? DRUGS) is not part of the beginning of the show this year. I must have dragged is up from foggy memories of previous street days, and Graham was having none of it. He lifted his head from my shoulder and said, "No Mommy. Sunny Day." He just wanted to sing the first line over and over and over again.

Do you think Sunny Day could hook me up with anything?

make a wish foundation

Greta would like a sister. She has started calling Graham by Alexandra when she wants to pretend that she has a sister. But, she has also begun the campaign to get a "new baby." Many of her friends' mothers are pregnant, and she is fascinated by the idea of a baby being in a mother's belly. Who isn't, really. That's totally whacked-out stuff.

You know where this is going. She asked me how the babies get in the mother's bellies. Now, I had always wondered what I would say when this question would arise. Mainly, I wondered if I would follow in the footseps of my mother, Momologue Sr. (Pause to laugh at this moniker. Resume.) When my youngest sister, Betsy, asked my mother how the next door neighbor's baby got into her belly, my mother did not hold anything back. She told the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help all of us, God. She said, "Well, Mr. Sadler put his penis into Mrs. Sadler and his sperm fertilized her egg and the baby started to grow." (Pause to vomit and laugh. Resume.) Betsy's brilliant response this truth-assault was, "Oh mom, you're making that up." So, I have wondered if I would follow in my mother's truth-telling footsteps or embark in some fantastic lie when asked a similar question.

The answer? I used metaphor. I told her that a baby came into a mommy's belly when she and the daddy made a "wish" for a baby. Then, sometimes the wish comes true, and sometimes it doesn't. First though, you need a wish. Greta immediately put her hands over my belly and closed her eyes. She said, "I wish for a baby sister." See, this is why you just tell the truth. The truth expelled the demon for my mother in less than a minute. And, my sister never talked to her about sex again. I had to continue and explain to Greta that this wish of hers was indeed not going to produce a tiny baby sister. I told her that Daddy had to make the wish. Luckily, she bought it. Unluckily, Marc learned of this conversation and now likes to tease me with talk of the make-a-wish foundation. Stop it, all of you.

Blogging, a way of life

Despite its suffering from a painfully bad name, blogging is really serious business. But first, come on, blogging? Do I really have to tell people that I have a blog? It sounds like a form of herpes. Or, a term, ala dingleberry, for, oh let's say, bits of spit that fly from one's mouth. I can hear a person exclaiming, "Oh my God, I just totally blogged." Or, "Did you notice the way that Mr. Jones is blogging while he talks? He's so obnoxious. Tell him to wipe his mouth after he eats."

Because I have a little free time on my hands, and because I abhor doing things that are truly productive, I've given some thought to what is wrong with this term. It's quite simple. The bl combination doesn't work well as a beginning for any word. I present a few others from www.morewords.com (and I urge you to go to this website, if you, too, abhor productivity and/ or exercising your own brain's ability to think of bl words): blabber, blackball, bladder, blame, blanched, blather, bleach, bleary, bleep, blemish, blellum . . . http://www.morewords.com/word/blellum/. (Yes, blellum. Not a word? The website says it is. Indeed, the website, which I did not check for reliability, has something of a complex.)

Ah yes, with Greta in school and Graham napping well, I have some new found free time. And you, gentle reader, have just witnessed the fruits of my free time. I blog a silly little blog. There are, however, others out there who take this bloggery very seriously. They are making MONEY from blogs every bit as stupid as my rant.

I get the blogs like gofugyourself (to which I always want to say, no you go fug YOURself). I would expect the star-studded stories and mockery to bring in the dough.

But, someone has to explain icanhascheeseburger. This fine piece of (what is it, writing? journalism? work???) brings is an estimated $5,600 a month? What? Call me jaded in the animal department perhaps, but it's just not funy or cute. It's just not. I'm sure that any self-respecting animal would balk at its depiction if they got a good look at the blog too. If animals are that innocent and dumb, then how did my cat know that waking up my daughter would get me out of bed, thus allowing him access to my warm bed? Not cute, not funny, not innocent, not stupid. (And also, as a side note, not a foreign accent. That's reserved for fictional animals.)

Le Théâtre de l'Absurde

I think that whenever possible, one should entitle moments from one's life with a French phrase. This is a relatively new revelation for me, but apt, I think. Also related to my thoughts about the French language, I believe that The Cat in the Hat (the character, not the book in its entirety)is clearly French and should be performed, when read aloud, with a thick French accent. The fish, of course, is British, and, Thing One and Thing Two are Swedish, rendering them "Ting Von and Ting Tvo" when properly pronounced.

Today we were playing at our local library, where they have a small puppet stage and puppets. I have tried many a time to engender an interest in puppetry in my children. Alas, thus far they have been more interested in strewing the puppets through out the library and climbing into the basket. Well, today, Greta and her two little friends decided to do a show, much to my delight. Greta had a jaguar, Ella had a giraffe, and Allison had a puppy. There they were behind the stage, poised to begin "the show."

Then, Greta announced, "Welcome to our puppet show." At this point, she must have encountered her first case of writer's block, thankfully not coupled with performance anxiety. When at a loss for words, what should one do? Turn to the audience, perhaps? I don't know, but it seems like it could be an improv rule.

She continued, "Guess what the name of our puppet show is?"

Me: I don't know. Is it Rumplestiltskin?

Greta: No. It's a fairy tale.

Me: Hmmm. (Considering, then deciding not to argue that point.) Cinderella?

Greta, the Director: No.

Me: Sleeping Beauty?

Greta: No.

Me: Beauty and the Beast?

Greta, clearly enjoying her game: No.

Me: I give up. What is it?

Greta, the torturess: You have to guess.

Me: Jack and the Beanstalk?

Greta: No.

At this point, even her cast was getting restless. They too wanted to know their script. The puppy and the giraffe were dangling on the arms, in danger of being tossed at Miss Director.

Me: I give up.

Greta, laughing a condescending little laugh: Oh, mom. If it's a play with a jaguar, giraffe and a puppy, of course it's called "The Jaguar, The Giraffe, and The Puppy."

Of course.

(And, alas, "The Jaguar, The Giraffe, and The Puppy," concluded.)

You can wash dirty squirrels

Greta's new pre-school looks fantastic! She will be in Montessori school for a half day every day this fall. Today we got to meet her new teachers and check out her classroom. I'm not sure who was more excited about the classroom. Well, sadly, we do; it was luck that Marc was there to get me to leave. But, Greta was also mightily impressed. We learned that the class will be going on a fieldtrip to see The Nutcracker this winter. She's still not sure what that all entails (WHO will go there with me? The kids and teachers. What kids? Well, the other children in the class. WHAT other children? Well, you don't know them yet, but you will. ) Though she is intrigued by the idea of riding on a school bus.

I found out that I can volunteer in the classroom. Wahoo! I can cut out things for the room, organize parties, or read books and listen to kids read books to me. (Gee, I wonder which one is a fit for me?)

The practical life (note that I am giving the "Edit Html" bar a go) part of the room has been a great interest to Greta since we visited last Spring. There, the kids can basically carry, wash or pour all sorts of stuff . . . in practice for a life as a busboy. We aim high. Today they had little items, including a plastic squirrel for children to practice washing and drying. Of course, I could not resist hyping up the preschool as a place where she could come to wash dirty little squirrels. My daughter, the ham, fell right into my script. That night, she announced to Aunt Betsy, "I have a great school. I can even wash dirty squirrels."

Marc vetoed my desire to call bath or shower time the time to wash our dirty squirrels. Alas, I see how some who don't inherently see how hysterically funny that is (lame-o's) might be disturbed by me ringing out, "Time to hit the tub and wash the dirty squirrels, kids." But, think of the joy it would bring me. You have my permission to say this in your home if you wish. There is no copyright.

Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and the Sunscreen

I love to read Greta the Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka books. (http://www.nordichouse.com/detail.aspx?ID=176)

I once thought that the books were published in Sweden. It's not such a crazy leap; the stories take place in Sweden. But no one in Sweden knew what I was talking about when I went to buy the books there. It was embarrassing to inquire about and insist in the existence of the classic Swedish children's books about Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka and Snip, Snap and Snur over and over again all over the country. To add insult to injury, I was trying to speak in Swedish much of the time, with my Swedish-chef accent. You try saying those names with a faux-Swedish accent. Fli-cka, Ri-cka, Di-cka. It's humiliating. And, I'm sure some Swedes had a good laugh. Indeed, they were written by a Minnesotan and published in Chicago . . . in English. So, here's the question: Are the names supposed to be jokes? Is some Norwegian behind this?

If you're still with me after this digression away from the important business of recording the absurdity and joy of parenting my two small children, I will return to the scene of reading Flicka, Ricka and Dicka and the Strawberries to Greta. The book is loaded with pictures of three little blonde girls out picking strawberries and frolicking through the quaint Swedish (or is it?) landscape. Greta's comment: "Mom, I sure hope those girls are wearing sunscreen."

a rose by any name

Greta has taken to calling her little brother, Graham, by David or Davie. There seems to be no apparent reason why it started, but I'm sure a large part od why it continues is that I laughed so hard when I first heard it. In fact, Graham himself has started saying, "I Davy." I don't think that he knows what it means; he just knows that we laugh. Greta refers to herself as Sarah a fair amount of the time. Sarah and David. The other night we were invited to Sarah and David's wedding. Greta was draped in every scarf or piece of fabric she could find. Graham had to kiss her.

Greta also likes to rename our entire family. Recently we were all the MmPeople family.

Mom: Pink Lady Mmm People
Dad: Watermelon Mmm People
Graham: Blueberry Mmm People
Greta: Banana Mmm People

This morning Greta came to eat breakfast bubbling over with enthusiasm as she told me, "Mom, guess what. I am a fairy from England. Aren't you soooo lucky? You get to eat breakfast next to a fairy from England."

Indeed, I was.

ya-yas

Graham loves ya-yas. It was his first word for Elmo and the entire Sesame Street gang. Every character had the same name, Ya-ya. Then, he discovered his second love, one for which he finds endless passion. "Ya-ya" became the electronic device, mainly cell phones, but not limited to anything with a button. Once, in the car, Graham played with a toy cell-phone and (I counted and timed) said "ya-ya" seventy times in ten minutes. He loves his ya-yas.

The other morning, he was playing in my bed. He picked up a little toy Big Bird and said, "ya-ya." Now he has learned to say, "Bi-buh," for Big Bird. I reminded him of this saying, "Graham, that's BIG BIRD, not a ya-ya." He replied, "Ya-ya." I countered, "No, B -ig B- ird," enunciating for educational purposes.

He put the Big Bird to his ear and said, "He-yo," a la me with a cell-phone.

I guess I'm the ya-ya.

Kisses for bugs

Graham is at such a sweet, innocent stage. He loves everything. This morning he took off his own wet diaper. I found him toddling through the door in the nude and asked, "Where is diaper?" He ran into the kitchen and found it and said, "Da-pa. Da-pa," as he clutched it in his arms like a long, lost love.

Yesterday he looked for and leaned over to kiss all of the bugs that he found on the swingset.

So much love.

more than peaches

"Mom, do you want to know what I'm interesting in?"

This came after my long-winded attempt at explaining what non-fiction is to Greta. She clearly got it when I started with it as books that are not about characters, but about real things. But, I had insisted in lising every non-fiction topic that I could. Well, that is, non-fiction topics that I deemed interesting and appropriate to a three-year-old, mainly flora and fauna. The AH Memorial Library spawned this conversation with its summer reading program's assignment to read a children's book of non-fiction.

"We could read a book about ladybugs, or flowers, or space, or . . ."

I was interrupted. "Mom, do you want to know what I'm interesting in?" (Of course, she meant "interested," but I found it too charming to correct.)

"What are you interesting in, Greta?"

"I really, really want to know, 'What is a stranger anyway?' And I need to know about California."

Suppressing a laugh, "Yes. Strangers are important to know about. And so is California. What do you already know about California?"

"It has peaches."

"Peaches? What else?"

"That's all. That's why I need to know more."

This, of course, was followed by about fifty other things she'd like to know about, but the rest of them were essentially a laundry list of things that she could see as we parked in the basement of the library and took the elevator up (What are pipes? How do you build pipes? How do you build a house? How do you drive a car?)

Oh, and we can applaud our local library for not only having a book about strangers written for a young audience, but also a DISPLAY about travel, including a child's book about California. Wahoo!

pestilence and paints

Graham and I have been struck down from some pestilence that, no doubt, sat brewing in Pewaukee Lake just waiting for fresh prey. And what excellent prey we are. The virus, one of the many that cause the medical disease entitled Herpangina -- a vile term that is not a form of herpes, has had a hey day in us causing everything from entire body aches, high fevers, and a wicked sore throat that makes one think that they should give up sword swallowing for good, until she remembers that, in fact, she hasn't swallowed a sword, just some murky lake water.

To be fair, I'm not sure that the Lake is what made us ill at all; it just adds to the romance of being ill to imagine catching in a Lake. I like imagining it creeping up from the sludge and slime rather than flying across a room on someone's spittle, or worse, entering my son in the "oral-fecal" route. I saw that on a website. Does that mean that it's possible that he ate poop, or just tiny poop fragments? And, did I get sick because I didn't wash my hands well enough after changing him? Oh dear, not romantic at all. That paints us as dim-witted slobs for whom vile diseases were created to further along natural selection.

We've been sick for a week. The low point, what will quite possibly be remembered in the future as the high point, came yesterday during a nap hour. It was not time for Ms. Greta to sleep, but Graham was asking for a nap, so I got him to fall asleep in my bed. Then, I crept out to read Greta a story. Even sitting to read made my body hurt, so I told her that I needed to lay down with Graham. I knew that I needed to think fast to find a great activity for her that would occupy her time. I'm sick, remember? I wasn't thinking so clearly. I chose water color paints to tempt her into silence so that I could get some needed rest. I set her up on a towel in her room with a mug of water, a full set of of paints and some coloring books. It seemed innocuous enough. What could a three-yer-old do with paint? (Stop laughing at me. Stop shaking your head.) Of course, she chose this half hour to paint every visible part of her body within arm's reach. Yes, her entire face. She even had used the brush as a backscratcher to paint the harder-to-reach areas of her back. When I looked up from my bed, my little angel looked like the woman in Wicked. Even after a 45 minute bath, a chartreuse tint continued to linger on her face. A day later and she's still got brown around and under every nail. The hardest part was not photographing her. I knew that if I rewarded it with any attention, anything remotely like laughter, that it would surely happen again. She will do anything for a laugh.

My first post

Well. Here we are on a blog. Let's give it "a go."