that's not fair: the musical

Graham literally laments when things do not go his way. I am listening to him through the monitor lamenting over the fact that I am no longer in the room. How sweet? Here is his song (the melody is almost the blues, three or four tones, with certain words drawn out)

I want mommy, buuuuuuuuut, she is not coming.
Bad mommy. She is a bad mommy.
Buuuuuuut, I want her.

(We change keys here and turn uptempo, like the upbeat part of behemian Rhapsody, only inspired from recent trick-or-treat rhymes of Greta's. Add in the percussion of him jumping in his crib.)

Mommy. Mommy.
I'll pull down your underpants.
I'll pull down my mommy's underpants.

Trick or treat. I don't care.
I'll pull down your underpants.

(Key change again. A wail this time.)
Mooooooommmmmmmmyyyyyy. I need you. I need her, but ummm, but Mommy. Not nice.
Pop goes the weasel.

Mooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy. Oh Mommmmmmmmmyyyyyyy. But, I think I will go there for one afternoon. That's OK. We have something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear. I'll pull down your underwear.

CRIEEESSSSS. Mom. Give me something. huhhhhhhhhhhh Mom, I need something.

Huhhhh. I'm disappointed. huhhhh. I'm disappointed. What's disappointed. I don't know. Mommmmmmyyyy, I need you. I need you. I DUST (just) NEEED you.

Hysterical frenzy.

a penny for MY thoughts

There is a fountain at our public library that the designer, in infinite wisdom, decided to surround with staggered cubes -- somewhat akin to climbing equipment one might find on a playground. Do you see where I'm going? In this summer alone two children, mercifully not mine, have taken the full-body plunge.

Greta and Graham love to climb up, lean over toward the depths, and plink their little pennies in after we check out. Greta always makes a wish. Much to her chagrin, her brother never does. Last time we were there, I had only one penny. It was a parenting crisis. Sophie's choice. Who was more likely to have a melt down. I acted quickly, but reasonably, I think. I gave Greta the penny to wish on. And, Graham threw it in. It sat well for a minute or two when Greta decided that maybe her wish will not come true if she did not throw it. Rather than assure her, and risk possible tears, I threw out, "Next time you can have TWO pennies to throw." (Ugh, I can just hear the pundits. "There she goes, classic liberal, throwing money at a problem to fix it.")

Today was that "next time." Of course, Graham, too, needed two pennies. So, now I'm out four cents. It's getting steep, but it's for my favorite public institution of all times . . . the library. (I use the same logic for the fines. ;))

This time, however, Greta, my darling little optimist, turned miserly. I think it was the thrill of two pennies to clink against each other. Rather than wish for toys, candy, or another penny, her top three most common wishes, she decided that she needed to put her pennies in her piggy bank. Now, on reflection, Greta's impulse was a smart impulse, perhaps one that I should have fostered. The pennies in her bank are far more likely to buy her a Barbie than her wish is, or her mother is. I should have affected my Benjamin Franklin voice, tousled her hair, and said, "A penny saved is a penny earned, Greta. You'll get rich that way, kid."

I have to admit that the current political climate affected my parenting. I don't want to foster miserly behavior. I want her to make wishes for her future! (I, too, roll my eyes at this.) I said, "Greta, wish for Barack Obama to become president."

Greta cocked her head and said, "Noooo." She was feeling me out to see if it was a joke.

"Please. It's very important to Mommy."

So, she did it. She wished into a penny for Barack Obama to become president (for me). I hope it works, but I'm not banking on that wish. I sent my pennies straight to the campaign.

an interview

This is based on a friend's blog. She interviewed her son, so I got curious about how my two young charges would respond.

What’s your favorite smell?

Greta: Huh? Why did you ask? (Because I'm going to write it down.) My favorite smell . . . I don't know. My favorite smell is the smell of bacon.

Graham: My favowite smell is fwuit. (fruit)

Greta: Actually, my favorite smell is flowers.

What’s your favorite vegetable?

Greta: My favorite vegetable is popcorn. (watching me type) What did you spell? (popcorn) WHERE is the 'P'? Oh, OK.

Graham: Um, strawberries.

What’s your favorite fruit?

Greta: Um. Tangerine.

Graham: Strawberries.

What’s your favorite snack?

Greta: My faovrite snack is cream cheese and YOU. (laugh) Cream cheese on popcorn. (We don't eat that.) I like it though.

Graham: My favorite snack is pretzels.

Greta: Actually, that's my favorite snack too though. How is this a quiz? (It's an interview.) How is this a quiz? You said it was a quiz.

What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re bored?

Greta: um um um um . . . HUM. (no, really) Really, HUM.

Graham: Hum a little dum.

What’s your favorite song?

My favorite song is Hanna Montana (she only knows one song by HM . . . you and me together)

Graham: Uh. MMMM. (Greta, in exasperation: BIG RED CAR) Big Red Car is my favorite song.

What’s your favorite dream?

Greta: Hmmm? The one that is about me and my friend and we're being friends. (I read this back to her and she spazzes out that I misunderstood. I still don't get it. I move on, but in the back of my mind I'm logging in my concern that Greta does not dream. I'm quite certain of it. What does that mean, and is it a sign of a budding sociopath? And, would that be my fault if she was?)

What’s your favorite toy?

Greta: My favorite toy is.. is...my new fairies and my princess purse. And Grace (stuffed cat she sleeps with).

Graham: My favorite toy is legos.

What’s your favorite book?

Greta: My favorite book is fairy books. (The rainbow fairy books.)

Graham: My favorite books are Thomas books.

What’s your favorite movie?

Greta: My favorite movie iiiiiiiisssss uh . . . My favorite movie is Belle, I mean Beauty and the Beast.

Graham: Thomas and the Big Big Bridge.

Greta: That's his favorite movie, but he doesn't have that movie, but he does have that BOOK. I guess you should have said that when she asked our favorite book, Graham. (I wish I could convey the tone . . . BRILLIANT, but I'm so very tired right now.)

Who are you going to marry?

Greta: Um, Graham.

Graham: You.(to Greta, because she has been repeating the last few questions for me because my voice is being tuned out by a certain two year old.)

Who's your favorite person to play with?

Greta: Ella, Allison, Livi and Katelynn. (all neighbors)

Graham: Katelynn (Katelynn is in 6th grade and comes over to play/ be a mother's helper a few days a week.)

Eavesdropping

Consider this a live feed.

Greta: Come on, Socks.

Graham: I have a good idea. I'm going to bend him.


Greta: No, I have a better idea than bending the cat, Graham. Let's put these fairies in a fairy house.

Graham: I'm bending him. Look. He's smiling at me.

Greta: Well, I'm going, Graham. I'll be back at midnight.

Greta: (to cat) (I'mnot sure when the transfer of cat happened) Are you my little boy?

Socks: Meow

Greta: Are you my little boy?

Socks: Meow

Greta: When are you going to be my little boy?

Greta: Watch Socks go in his little house. Graham, you hold this while I look for something to block him.

Shuffling around.

Socks: a high pitched Meow.

Greta: You want a new tail Socks?

Socks: Meow.

Greta: I'll let you go.

Socks walks into the room with me, his protectress. There is a ribbon tied around his tail.

Poor little cat? Poor little cat, my ass. First, there is nothing little about this cat. Second, he never hides from them. He's a cat. He fits under the couch. But, he walks up to them asking for more every day. Just for the record.

He likes my hair

Graham likes my hair. He told me so.

"I wike you hair, Mommy. It's fuzzy and cute."

Circle heads, an intelligence theory

Call her the next Gardner.

Recently, Greta shared her theory of intelligence with her father, who was unable to remember the name of a character from a book.

"Daddy," she said. "Do you know why you can't remember but I can? You have a tall, skinny head. But, I have a big, circle head. I have more room for the memories."

He responded, "Did Mommy tell you this?"

I most certainly did not. However, I am happy to report that, according to Greta, I, too, have a big, circle head. And, I won't forget it.

Scatology 101

I present a scene from my own childhood. My grandmother, a truly jolly soul, is watching my sister and me perform for her. She is delighted by our performance art; there is no pretending in this room. We have written this masterpiece just for her because our mother will not be amused by it. We are in our unfinished basement, dancing and singing on an old king-sized matress that my parents let us have to play on. She is sitting on a lawn chair. The song, and I use the term "song" loosely, goes something like this (well, not something, exactly) (and, please know that I shudder to admit this):

Verse one:
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot (imitate the action of tooting) yeah.
I did a toot toot toot toot toot toot toot toot toooooot.

You can probably imagine how this performance might continue. But, believe me when I say that we settled for no less than eight verses, covering bodily functions that I don't think other children perform for their grandmothers, at the grandmother's behest no less. Indeed, like a true groundling, she would scream out suggestions for the next action, or join in, adding to the fun. If we were truly lucky, we could get her to take out her fake teeth and squirm in giggles as she gummed a smile at us.

Good times.

And, these good times are back again for some of us in my household. Greta and Graham have discovered potty humor. My husband is not amused. Nor should he be, I know. His whole family are truly further evolved people, like the stock my mother comes from. My mother comes from a medical family, where it's all science. As a small child, I was the only one on the block who had been taught BM instead of poopy. It doesn't carry the same ring when calling it out across the playground. Clearly my father's family is closer to the days when humans flung excrement at each other like monkeys. Noone flings it anymore in this gene pool (that I know of), but they're not above that if it would bring a laugh. They love the bathroom humor.

I had thought that Greta avoided the "potty" gene, when she came home from school and told me that poopy was not a nice word. I asked her how she knew this. She told me that the teacher told the boys in her preschool class. I asked what the boys said in response. I am told that they said poopy again. Greta found no humor in this, and I successfully bit my lip and thought, crisis avoided.

Then, Graham turned two. And, Greta loves to make her brother laugh. And, help us all, Graham has dipped into the fatal potty genepool. He cries from laughter if Greta whispers "potty" in his ear. Real tears. When reading a book, Graham points out the butt of characters. The two of them are frequently looking for moments that they can discuss bodily functions. So far, it's pretty innocent. They only know of three functions.

And thus, crisis NOT avoided. This is the problem. Somewhere, deep inside of me, I still think that this is funny. Help. The larger part of me responds to their behavior by telling them to stop, that it's not how we joke. And, I try to come up with better, more appropriate, funny words. But, they always go back to the potty. And every once in a while they catch the little piece of my grandmother that is in me smiling.

a hunt for hummingbirds and green things

I am back. January and its thug friend February got the best of me this year. I went through a bleak mid-winter funk. But, I am back. Spring is here, or rather it's coming. Greta bounded out of the house today and announced to the neighborhood, "Well, it's a hunt for hummingbirds and green things, I guess." To my inquiry about this statement, she replied, "signs of Spring." She must have learned this at school, or made it up. I imagine that hummingbirds are signs of Spring, but I don't know that. I've never seen one in person. But, if I do see a hummingbird, I plan on lassoing the bugger and holding it hostage in my backyard. Mother Nature will know what she can do "spring" him loose. A hunt indeed.