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.