Do Not Let Your Child Read This

This thing looks like the devil incarnate compared to my kid on Thanksgiving. Photo: Erik K Veland/Flickr

On Thanksgiving, Sally hit on the world’s most efficient way to get anything she wants. We were sitting at the dinner table, mashed potatoes quickly cooling, and my mom–the hostess–said “who would like to say grace?” This is the time we all look toward my brother (the golden child) and my youngest sister (The youngest, therefore the one who automatically gets all the crappy tasks). They both stalled just a hair too long, leaving Sally her spectacular window of opportunity.

Her hand went up, preschool style. “I can do it,” said the Who from Whoville. Everyone looked at her cheerfully. Except me. I looked at her like she might projectile vomit on the turkey. She has no idea what “grace” is — at our table before dinner we say things like “MOM! I still don’t have milk!” and “What IS this?! It smells disgusting!”

But she put her hands in her lap and gazed up at my mom, who we’ll call Nan, because we call her Nan. “I’m thankful for Nan.”

And I swear checkbooks came out to pay future college tuition bills. My dad went out to the garage and brought in the pony he’d been saving for a rainy day. My mom gave Sally an entire pie. They’re building her a castle for Christmas.

Seriously, the kid could have ANYTHING after a performance like that. So I tried it with Mr. Embee. All I got was a snort and “Did you give the cat his antibiotics yet?” Guess you’ve got to be a freaking ray of sunshine to pull it off.

**The next post on this blog will be my 100th. Woah. Stay tuned for some sort of prize for a lucky reader.

Caught In the Act

There’s an island in our kitchen where papers go to die. I think you’re supposed to use this kind of table/rack for kitchen things, but that’s not what happens at our house. It’s a dumping ground. A few days ago I decided to attack it. Not because of any great desire to be a better person, but because I went to toss something else on the pile and caused a landslide.

I set Sally up with watercolor paints (her current favorite form of artistic expression) and she got busy painting the Earth while I dove into the cause of much of Earth’s troubles: Junk.

My archaeological dig was going really well. I was efficient, tossing item after item. I mean really, if I haven’t touched it since 2007, I don’t need it. Old bank statements, grocery lists, crockpot cookbooks, takeout menus, hey a miniature Halloween snow globe! . . . Look at me, busy little bee. And then:

“Mommy? Why are you frowing away my art projects?”

Why are ruining my life, Mother? Why? Image: hopeandmegan/flickr

Saucer-sized eyes filled with confusion look at me. I want to say “because, sweetie, you make thousands of ‘projects’ and I keep a ton of them. I love you but let’s face it, you’re not exactly Picasso.” But I don’t say that. Because she has made me feel like the suckiest mother in the world! I’ve been punched in the gut. I’ve hurt my child’s ego. So I turn on my oscar-worthy acting skills and look, surprised, at the trash can. “Oh my goodness! I had no idea. Sally, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw these important projects away. I meant to set them aside for your baby book. You know Mommy loves all your pictures.”

I dust them off and gingerly set them on the counter. And then a few hours later I trash them, taking care to wedge them under some empty food wrappers. I suck.

Makin’ Whoopee

Not THAT kind of Whoopee. Not with all the fart noises in the background. You see, Sally has discovered the unending hysterics of foofs. That’s what we call them. Foofs.  Cute, right?

At my parents’ house recently, we were having hot dogs for lunch. My father went to squeeze the nearly empty bottle of mustard, and instead of condiment he got that moist foof sound.

Sally, mouth full of bun and ketchup, nearly died of the giggles. She could barely sit up, chewed wiener in full view. And naturally, her fit of the funnies made us all laugh. Because our angelic 3-year-old had just discovered the humor in the sound of passing gas.

Note: Only those of us with one child would think this is adorable. I’m pretty sure the rest of the world tries to squelch this kind of behavior.

So it was funny, yada yada, we relayed the story to every family member who came through the front door as if Sally had won a Nobel prize, and then it was over, right?

Wrong.

Sally’s grandfather produced a whoopee cushion. A SELF-INFLATING whoopee cushion–all the fun with none of the work. So, it really is fine and everything, Pop, but it has changed our lives.

Yesterday after work:

“Did you have fun with Daddy today?” ffffffftttt. “SALLY, did you have fun?”

“Yes! Mommy, say ‘I don’t EVER foof!’ “

“Okay. I don’t EVER–” ffffffbbbt. [Child collapses in fit of laughter.]

At the dinner table:

flubbbtt. “Sally, that’s not for the dinner table.”

“But I need it!” feeeebbtt.

“NO.” [Remove offensive disgusting toy.] [Child angry.]

Bedtime:

“I need my whoopee cushion.”

“No, it’s time for bed.”

“I can sleep with it.”

“NO.”

“But it’s FUN!” fllrrrbt. [laughter] “Mommy, say ‘I don’t EVER foof!’ “

“Idon’teverfoof.” flrrrggrrrbt. [laughter. Mother yells over giggles.] “ENOUGH. Into bed.”

…

….ffft.