Thursday, April 26, 2007

I don't know where he gets the endless chattering thing from

Some thoughts:

One: So I was washing my hair the other day, and my little voyeur peeped into the shower. He asked for some "bubbles" out of my hair but told him I was washing it. He looked at me gravely and said "You're doing a good job, mom."

Two: We were driving away from the library the other day and a cute Asian couple walked by our car. D doesn't always notice passersby but for some reason, they captured his interest, and he said "What's HIS name?" I told him I didn't know, and he kind of shook his head at me, like "come on, that was such an easy question" and said "it's Frere Jacques" as if maybe I just didn't recognize Frere Jacques because he was wearing sunglasses or a bad toupee. I don't know why this filled me with glee, but I think it has something to do with the fact that D is thinking about this guy now whenever I hear his reedy, sweet voice singing that old French nursery rhyme.

Three: The following commentary might be the reason it takes us 13.5 minutes to get in the car and get ready to go somewhere:

Okay, sweetie, time to get in the car. No, no, D honey, now is NOT the time to run under the tent and hide. I need you to get in the car. Right now. Okay, I'm going to count, and you either come out of the tent or I will come in and get you. One. Two. Very good, thank you for listening. Okay, now let's get out the door. No, the door honey. That's right. Mommy will open the door, you just walk on out. Out. This way, please. Yes, I see the tree. Yes, I see the bicycle. We will play with your bicycle when we get home. No, sweetie, I need you to get off your bicycle right now and get in the car. Are you listening? Thank you for being a good listener. Okay, let mommy open the car door.

Come back over to the car, please. I know you want to roll your car on the ground right now, but we need to get in the car. Please walk to the car. Do you want to walk like a big boy or do you want me to carry you? Okay, then walk. NOW. Oooooone. Twoooooo. Thank you for listening. Now let mommy open the car door. Okay, okay, YOU open the car door. Go ahead. Do you need help? Okay, okay, I won't help. "My" do it. Yes. ((pause)) Do you need help? Because when you grunt and scream like that, mommy thinks you need help. Mommy actually thinks MOMMY needs help when you scream like that. Okay, now into the car. No, honey, there's nothing under that seat. Yes, that is mommmy's seat. There's nothing under it. Okay, you're right, there's a goldfish. No, no, please don't eat the goldfish. That goldfish is grey. And slimy. Yes, slimy. Yes, I will give you a not-slimy goldfish once you GET IN YOUR SEAT. I know you want to climb in the way-back, but we are not climbing into the way-back right now. Get in your seat, honey. I am not asking again. Okay, okay, "my" do it. Just do it NOW. Sit down. D, listen to me. You need to sit down right now. No, mommy needs to help you buckle those straps or she will get arrested. I know you want to do it, but mommy needs to help. Okay, you're all buckled in. Yes, I will get you some goldfish. Yes, I will get your water. And your la-la. And your binky. And a very large, very cool cloth to put to my head.

As Daddymatic likes to say, it is a little like getting pecked to death by a duck.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Co-opting pagan rituals for the sake of candy since 2007

I've been bad about posting. I really wanted to post just after Easter, but I had a rough week in which I received some pretty bad news about a friend who was killed, and in light of that and the recent shootings at Virginia Tech, it seemed frivolous to post about the fact that D had candy for the first time over Easter and how much fun it was this year to have Easter with him.

But I have been thinking about this more and more, and I think what helps me to get through news that seems so bad you can't even get your brain around it are precisely these moments of silliness and joy--even if they are fueled almost entirely by high fructose corn syrup and D&C red #5.

So I will have more posts coming up--I actually have a few drafted that are just waiting for the gimlet eye of revision to be cast over them before I release them to the ether (yes, believe it or not, most of the stuff I publish here has actually been reread and often revised despite the scrawled-in-haste-on-two-squares-of-toilet-paper je ne sais quoi it embodies.)

And so, I give you a picture and two videos:

Act I: In Which The One True Child Finds Candy, after Just Having Stated to His Mother That "I Don't Want to Eat Real Food, I Just Want Candy."

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Act II, In Which We Explain Wordlessly Why The One True Child Should Not Ever Be Given Said Candy (and Possibly, Why Toddlers Even Look Cute Dressed as Old Men in Socks and Sandals):

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But this face? How can you deny this face the jellybeans it loves more than either one of its parents? Especially since this child gets more mileage out of 3 lousy jellybeans than most people would a 5-course meal?

(The strapping lad with the OTC in this picture is our neighbor, Xander, who has convinced me that the person who said all children should come with the older sibiling accessory was RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT on.)