Quickie: My Little Firecracker

*Quickies are a thing I started last summer and then did once. Classic. Let’s try it again.

Photo: Sunsurfr/Flickr

Since no city in a two-mile radius is having fireworks on the Fourth, and that’s how far we’re willing to travel, we took a trip last night, the 2nd, to a nearby soccer field. From there we could see the patriotic firework show from the Oakland A’s game. As we waited in the growing darkness, Sally kept trying to convince us to move outside the field onto some rocks she liked. We explained that then we’d be watching the show through a chain-link fence, and if we stayed here, IN the soccer area, we’d have a perfect view.

“I want to sit on the rocks. I’M GOING.”

“Fine. We’re sitting here. You can join us if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to. The rocks are my FAVORITE. I LOVE them.”

“Sally, we have a perfect little porch to sit on right here. We can all sit together and we can see perfectly! I think this is a better idea tonight than the rocks tonight.”

“Uh, Mommy, you are sitting in front of a girls’ bathroom.”

At which point I cracked up. Even if she did have the tone of a hormonally imbalanced pre-teen, the girl’s got a sense of humor. We cuddled up in front of a glorified outhouse and had a great time.

Quickie: Car Talk

**During the month of July, Mom-Colored Glasses is taking a bit of a break. There will still be posts, but not twice per week and I’ll do some shorter things, which I’m going to call Quickies despite the obvious innuendo there. I’ll also post a few “short stuff” items and post them on Facebook. It’s “summer lite.” Now, back to your regularly scheduled program. . . .**

kaisersosa67/iStockphoto

We made two stops on our two-hour drive home from Fourth of July festivities on Monday: one for a milkshake to keep super-tired Sally awake during the late-afternoon car ride, and one potty break. So when she announced –five miles from home –”I’ve gotta POOP!” we told her to keep her pants on, we’d be home in five minutes. This child could enter bladder- and bowel-control competitions, so trust me, this is not a big deal. She could wait. But she shot back, “Poop wants to come out NOW.”

“Well, tell poop it has to stay in a few more minutes.”

. . . Sometimes I forget how literal kids are.

From the back, Mr. Embee and I hear a high, constricted voice: “Sally, I need to come out now.”

Sally’s voice: “You can’t, Poop. You have to wait. I’m sorry.”

“But I really need to come out!”

And on, and on.

Mr. Embee looks at me from the driver’s seat. “Is she having a conversation with her poo?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

“What are we doing for dinner?” When you live in Sally’s world, you just accept some things, like full, voice-altered conversations with fecal matter.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Sally likes to name and rename things. I hear stuff like this a lot:

“It’s the Fourth of Boo-lie, not July. Boo-lie and July, those rhyme!”

It’s a lot like listening to a drunk person. But in addition to renaming us things like “Fommy and Laddy” she also, like most kids, names her toys. Except . . . maybe I led a particularly simple childhood, but I remember names like “blacky” for a cat. Sally goes a little further than that, bordering on middle-Eastern and Chinese names. For example:

Fahdi Octopus Donkey — a yellow and blue octopus that isn’t even very cute gets referred to by his full name every time she plays with him.

Ganymede — a doll named after one of the moons of Jupiter. What, is that weird?

Mac-and-Cheese Chocolate Fried-Chicken — this is the doll formerly known as “Lan-kai.” I don’t know what got into Lan-kai to make her go this route, but we’re looking for an eating disorder therapist.

Even stranger are the times toys dress like other toys. For example, there’s an Aurora doll (for the princessly challenged, that’s Sleeping Beauty). However, one of the fairies — Rosetta — likes to dress up as Aurora. So Aurora will be paraded around, and heaven forbid you call her Aurora because honestly, keep up people — it’s Rosetta pretending to be Aurora. Similar “costume changes” will occur with multiple dolls, and pretty soon Mr. Embee’s head explodes. I, being female, have an enlarged gossip gland and can handle this pretty well (Rosetta was dressed like Aurora and Fawn wanted to play, too, so she was pretending to be Snow White, but then her hair wasn’t the right length so she decided to be Cinderella, but put Ariel’s dress on because she likes pink the best. So Fawn is Cinderella in Ariel’s clothing. Duh.)

I really think this is good practice for her. It means she’ll be able to keep my medications and various doctors straight and notify the authorities calmly when I wander away from her house at age 105, delirious and wearing nothing but Rapunzel’s wig.

There’s Such a Thing as Too Much Independence

Independence Day is just hours away. Before you pull out your patriotic garb, we need to talk.

OVER THE TOP: These Scavenge boots give me the willies.

I believe our forefathers would be proud of how we celebrate the Fourth of July. Our traditions haven’t changed much over the years—good ol’ picnics, family and friends, fireworks and parades are still the standard. Benjamin Franklin could grab a beer and join right in without feeling like he missed a day in the life of an American. But for one glaring, fleshy exception: The clothes.

You’ve seen it—you may even wear it. The fiery red tank top with “Proud to be an American” flanked by tufts of manly underarm hair. The Uncle Sam skull and crossbones shirt. An entire store dedicated (really) to “Fabulous, Sexy Fourth of July Clothes.” Gross. Independence Day should be rated G, and I’m pretty sure I felt like that even before I had to shield my child’s eyes from hankie-sized, star-spangled midriffs that apparently celebrate our freedom to get boob jobs. Men, American flag boxer shorts desecrate our nation’s symbol. And ladies, horizontal stripes are for flags, not people. If the glare from the glittering fireworks on your oversized T-shirt melts my plastic margarita cup, it’s too much. That flag-patterned bikini? Okay, I’m just jealous I can’t pull that off.

I’m all for patriotism. My family will wear our nation’s colors; I have red, white and blue dishtowels. But let’s go for something classier than pinwheel bug-antenna headbands or blue pom-pon wigs. And please, please don’t customize a shirt that names you as anyone’s personal firecracker. Even Thomas Jefferson would draw the line there, and it makes the rest of us embarrassed to be Americans.