Category Archives: Child Wrangling

Oh, you dear, sweet thing

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Dear little person:

I am so sorry that the world feels out of your control. I’m sorry it’s so tough to be small.

I’m sorry that people will minimize your frustrations by saying “it’ll only get worse.”

And I’m sorry that it will. Only get worse.

I’m sorry that life moves too slowly when you want adventure.

I’m sorry that life moves too quickly when you need routine.

I’m sorry that not everyone will adore you as much as we do.

I’m sorry that society thinks its job is to beat out of you that which makes you You. I hope we can help you find and hone your strengths so you stay You in the face of Them.

I’m sorry you don’t know yet that you won’t, in fact, spin off into a million pieces when you feel as strongly as you do.

I’m glad I’m here to teach you that it’s okay to have very strong feelings.

I’m sorry not everyone will always be gentle or respectful. I’m also sorry you won’t be, either. I’m glad I’m here to teach you to strive for it, though.

I’m not sorry that you didn’t know what a donut was until today. And I’m not sorry you didn’t like the first one you ever tried.

I’m not sorry that in our family Santa is a story about a person who collects from those who have enough and gives to people who need, rather than bringing rewards if you are “nice.” I’m glad we don’t subscribe to that kind of reward/punishment structure. And I’m glad you know about giving to people and animals who need.

I’m sorry that you have to finish the first portions of fruit, protein, and carbohydrate in each meal before you get seconds. I’m not sorry that you’re always welcome to trade a meal you’ve tasted for hummus and crackers.

I’m sorry we have safety and respect rules about which we are not flexible.

I’m not sorry we’re flexible about everything else.

I’m sorry that, in the midst of all the other changes in your life, I decided to move the furniture in my room. I’m sorry that sent you completely around the bend. I’m not sorry that if you ever need to cry that you *always* get a shoulder on which to do it.

I’m sorry that you cried so hard into my shoulder about me moving my bed that you had huge, salty curls dried to your cheek while you slept.

But I’m not moving the bed back.

I’m sorry if having a new baby upends your world. But I’m not sorry that you will forever have a sibling. From what Daddy and I have found, they’re pretty nice things to have.

It’s all about balance, I guess. Maybe.

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So first week of school for Peanut, predictably, meant first week of the worst freaking tantrums since the dawn of time. (Not seriously. He’s a low tantrum dude. But on *his* Richter scale, this weekend was off the f–ing charts.)

We had him screaming in the supermarket, knocking down boxes of Top Ramen. We had him running full tilt through the freezer aisle and opening every door, just before I caught him and flung him over my shoulder kicking and screaming to make a speedy exit. We had him whining and sobbing and yelling at us, really yelling, with every single Lego piece that did not obey the laws of physics and geometry on whatever planet this non-Euclidean, non-Newtonian kid lives on. We had a day, basically, of “I will help you when you can treat me respectfully, but I will not stay in the same room with that voice,” all day, both days. And we had him yelling at my sweet little 94-year-old grandmother, on my birthday, that she was not allowed to talk to me, only *he* can talk to me.

Clean up! Aisle Six! Some lady is sobbing about something or other, and her puddle of tears is activating the Top Ramen secret flavor packets.

I knew we’d pay dearly for the first week of preschool. I know it’s a lot of change and his world is upside down (shut up, Drs. Sears, he’s in a co-op where I’m there and everything is all child-directed, for a grand total of three hours a day thrice a week, so don’t tell me from upside down world until you’ve lived with a highly spirited intense opinionated way-too-smart kid for three and a half years, and then I’ll show you upside down world) so he needs an emotional outlet. But must *I* be the outlet? Holy Freaking Meltdown of the Social Order, Batman, we need a tranquilizer dart from Babies R Us.

Upside of the whole insane weekend of terror, though? My mom watched the new person formerly known as Peanut for an evening in which Spouse and I saw a real, actual film on a screen and had a real, actual meal at a quiet restaurant. As in feature film rated something I didn’t have to check because who cares? and menu without crayons.

More important, uproariously funny Clooney and MacGregor flick at which the rest of the audience politely tittered and I laughed so hard and so loudly that people glared at me. Dumbest movie I’ve seen in years and absolutely pants-wettingly funny. See it. The Men Who Stare at Goats. I think. I don’t care. The title’s not important. When you see it, email me about the “what are the quotes for?” line. And the sparkle eyes scene. It’ll make me wet more pants. And I only have, like, two pair that fit right now, so what a laundry honor that will be.

And even more important, we found a fabulous restaurant I’ve never tried, in whose menu I was very pleased, and with whose policy of offering wine by the bottle, glass, or 2 ounce taste I was thrilled. Because a “taste” of wine is totally under the radar of *every* hyper-vigilant American obstetrician I’ve ever met or read. No, not a sip, and not a glass. A technical, measured, duly noted on the receipt, “taste.” Spicy syrah. Lovely. From what I tasted.

Did I mention George Clooney and Ewan MacGregor? Nobody laughed but me. And you know how much i don’t care that other people on the planet are too dumb to get good jokes?

Today was not much easier with Peanut, but he slept a full nap and I had a huge pot of homemade chili at my elbow as I thought about and refused to the the 20 really pressing things on my to-do list. And instead started a new book that pleases me GREATLY.

And you know what? Volcanic bullshit from my kid on a day where I get a few hours with Spouse, and whiny exhausting understandable but unbearable nonsense from my kid on a day where I have freshly made chili and a new book is totally a good weekend. Because his bullshit is, as of today, no longer going to be my bullshit. It will be my atmosphere and my backdrop and my full time g.d. job, but I’m gonna do my best not to breathe it in and let it rattle me. Cuz, dammit, I have George Clooney and chili and twelve choices of bruschetta and Ewan MacGregor and a new book, y’all.

Ewan MacGregor.

Rookie move

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Peanut loves the bath, but some days is feeling obstinate. Shocking, I know, given his age and his temperament. So I broke out the classic fail-safe last night for the first time this year: “choose your bath color tonight.” A little cake gel colorant dissolved in a coffee cup and poured ceremoniously into the tub, and we had a whine- and struggle-free purple bath.

battle-free technique no. 1

Battle-free technique number one

Nor, this particular evening did Peanut want to brush his teeth. We proffered the toothbrush that blinks. To no avail. Offered a choice of toothpastes and the option to self brush first or after parental brushing. Nothing. We suggested an upside down brushing (dangling toddlers works for anything but three year olds are *so* over that technique) but he declined. We settled for the threat, our last resort: no teeth, no stories. If you say yes stories, you say yes teeth. Your choice. We have no stake in the answer.

Grumblingly whiningly sold. Clean teeth and the never-yet-missed two stories.

There must be a better way.

So I thought of you. I’m offering up this post for those of you who are struggling with or masters of issues of any kind…let’s do a greatest hits of how to get around our children’s behavior. The colored bath and the upside down teeth brushing are my favorites at home. In public, a special purse toy that only comes out when I need five minutes of quiet work for us. Haircuts and hair tangles, in our house, get homemade yogurt popsicles in the tub. And veggie avoidance that goes on too long get broiled (425 degree, olive oil and salt) veggies delivered fresh from the oven to a Peanut in the tub. Because my kid thinks eating in the bath is the height of decadence. Whatever, dude, every other kid gets good bribes, like candy, but you don’t need to know that.

And for doctor’s visits, which none of us fear but I know some families do, are scheduled later the same week as one of my doctor’s visits, so he can see everything happen to me first.

What do you do for the reluctant toothbrusher? What is your magic, fail-safe, works every time trick for some issue your kid wants to get around? What issue do you desperately need advice on? Feel free to post anonymously. Just make up a fake email account from yahoo or hotmail and ask or answer as you see fit.

Preschool debut

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Ah, Peanut had a classic, classic first day at the co-op. Major resistance getting out the door. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to dress, don’t want to go. But, little man, I know we’ve only been over this ten thousand times, so I’ll patiently explain as though it’s the first conversation we’ve ever had, that this is a school where you do self-directed play and I’ll be there the whole time if you want me. And you’ve been there three times already for tours and orientation and such and never wanted to leave. Remember? You like this place. And I’m not leaving you there alone.

Oh. Okay.

He was a bit shy when he was in the morning circle, but the very minute we broke into the huge indoor and outdoor play spaces for the daily two-hour free-for-all playtime, he made a bee line for the child who told everyone about his new top that glows when you spin it, and asked the boy if he could try it. Awesome guts, Peanut. I like that. I don’t have that, and I won’t praise it ‘cuz we’re into that whole “narrate it but don’t judge anything they do” parenting style, but I totally dig it.

He tolerated the hyper-whiny kid, he defended his territory when bigger kids wanted to play with his puzzle, he took it well when the older kids wouldn’t let him play in their fort, he successfully diapered three baby dolls by himself in the loft (from which he banned me because I’m too big), sewed four buttons on his quilt piece, ate his tuition’s worth of popcorn at the snack kitchen, read several books with me and then with his freshly nappied dolls, and build some awesome marble roller coasters.

I love watching him from a distance as though I don’t know him. He’s perfect in every way.

Especially compared to *that* kid. And *that other* kid. Thank you, E. and I. and the others of your size and approximate age who wanted to play with him and invited him into your reindeer games. You’re lovely humans.

At song time Peanut was the first to answer at each turn how many monkeys were left jumping on the bed after their ill-advised mother ignoring. And when we celebrated one five-year-old’s birthday, he told me with no hesitation that the donut hole he tried was yucky and I *had* to eat his. He pushed a little shopping cart full of basketballs for more than 30 minutes straight, running in circles until he was flush and exhausted. And five steps out of the gate after it was all done, he completely lost his ability to be a grownup.

So we went home and he threw tantrums and I offered food and he refused to wash his hands and I offered nap and he started to slam the door but collapsed into a heap at my feet and needed a long cuddle to regain any semblance of reason. And we ate and slept and he told me after nap that he would really like me to stay in my room for a while while he played quietly by himself.

“It’s all just too much, Mom. I just need my house back.”

Oh, little guy, I hear ya. Good thing I get to put you to bed soon, because I feel exactly the same.

He was brilliant, school is going to be brilliant, and being allowed to read Mill on the Floss for half an hour while my small creature plays with his dolls alone is totally worth parenting dozens of ne’er-do-wells every Friday, my day to participate at our supportive, respectful, non-authoritarian, play-based, hippie co-op.

Yay, little dude and yay mama.

Marriage of heaven and hell

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Know my idea of heaven? Being away from home, in either urban or rural setting, where my time is entirely my own and the only bottom I wipe is my own. Where I see friends of all sorts for eating and meandering and simply talking, all of which occurs without interruption except by consenting, pleasant adults. In this heaven there is no acting as full time Superego for my Id escapee; no addressing anybody’s sleeping, cleaning, reading, or playing needs but my own. There is intellectual stimulation and quiet in equal measure. There are deep breaths and completed thoughts completely bereft of whining, hitting, screeching, demanding, and throwing. In this heaven there is no Candyland.

Well, erumpent Id with messy bottom and multivalent sleep, cleanliness, reading, and play needs: I get all that heaven and more in one week. Hope the anticipation bodes well for your caretaking for the next seven days.

Happy Halloween

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P: [standing in doorway with blank look]
M: What do you say?
P: [whispers] Happy Halloween
M: [loudly, beaming] Yes, Happy Halloween.
P: [now ready for a full discussion with candy-wielding stranger] And Happy Mommy and Daddy Home Day. And Grandma’s coming, too.
Candy Stranger: Here you go. Happy Halloween.
P: Thank you.
M: Great job, bug.
P: Why they no say you welcome? Are they not nice?

sigh.

Happy Candy Day, everyone!

[cackling]

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Elizabeth over at Bleakonomy amused me with this article about Disney admitting the Baby Einstein products are not educational, and may actually harm children’s development.

Get your refund information here. Unless your kid *is* a genius. In that case, enjoy your Disney and ignore me, because I’d be arguing that Jr.’s mental bandwidth is due to your stellar parenting and excellent genes not some lame gimick. Silly me.

Heck, let your kids play with or watch whatever you choose. But for heaven’s sake, let’s someone please tell those people who really believe that they will change their child’s life with a DVD that it’s marketing, not science.

And consider a pop on over to the Campaign for a Commerical-Free Childhood, where they support my refusal to show my kid anything that makes him want characters on his Band-Aids, shoes, or underpants. Why? Cuz I ain’t advertising their bullshit products on my kid. That’s why.

(Yup, Peanut is still getting movie day every Wed for one hour. Too late, AAP, you said age one when he was born and we held out that long. For a year (from age 1 to 2) he only got half an hour—once a week—and it was all Signing Time, which I personally found hugely educational and useful to his vocabulary, his signing, and his fascination with other children. He didn’t get any TV before age one, barring accidental restaurant exposure to organized sports (blech) and one afternoon when he napped in the same room that we watched the first half of Brokeback Mountain. Now *that*’s educational.)

Night conversations

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My poor little dude, my exasperating little dude, my sweet little dude is a little ball of intensity. He’s never done well with the whole winding down during sleep, and our family has always been vistied by frequent wakings and nightmares and lots of needs during the hours for which I plan to be blissfully neglectful. But we’re hardcore believers in gentle parenting and attachment parenting and nighttime parenting and generally thoughtful parenting, so we let him handle what he can and help him with the rest.

At about two and a half he slept through the night a few times. At three, a few more. Now, at three and a half he sleeps through the night reliably most nights.

But I don’t. Because this little ball of stress, this empathetic barometer of all that is going on in his world, still has vivid dreams, though we’ve never even talked about that word. And he now, instead of waking up crying and scared, yells back in his sleep.

Full sentences.

Sometimes scary. But often hilarious.

Funny even though they wake me up during hours for which I had a lot of ignoring him planned.

Recent examples, all of which seem to occur between 2am and 3:45am:

“No. No! No! I want to choose!”

“Hey! Four blackberries!”

“I don’t want to. No! You take a bath!”

“No. No. NO! There are no alligators, Frog.”

You tell ’em, buddy.

I’m confused.

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I’m a bit confused, I must admit. When you were new to this world, we had to eat dinner in under 3 minutes. As you grew, we got even faster, because without at least two hands to supervise your every antic, we were in way too much trouble to even make dinner worth it.
And now it takes you 90 minutes to eat the tiniest dinner we can concoct.

I’m also stymied on this: I know my parents wished upon me a child just like me—nay, worse, if possible, in every timbre. So is that why you have that thing about licking applesauce and yogurt off your spoon one cc at a time? Is that why your temper is absolutely off the charts? could this be why you hold grudges for over a year, even if that means more than a third of your life? Is that why you drive me batshit insane? Because I thought it was that you took after your father.

And clear something up for me, if you would…why do you feel the need to use what I say against me? I can’t handle tantrums or whining or freaking out in general (from you anyway, since I’m brewing my own over here), so I told you to take a deep breath and explain your point of view carefully instead of flipping your Dr. Jekyl switch. But that doesn’t mean you need to answer a “no, we don’t have candy corn for dinner,” with “[big sigh] Mommy. I understand you don’t want me to have sugar right now. But how about just one piece?” What the hell kind of freak of nature are you? How can I resist a calm and reasoned response? You know me better than that. Let’s be honest: I really need you to be of moderate intelligence, like me and Pa, because we are simply not up to the task of someone who listens and modifies his attacks based on our weaknesses.

And maybe it’s my lack of a full compliment of firing neurons, but I’m not quite clear on why, in a fit of frustration with your nonsense, I ask, “you wanna rumble?” having never used that word before, and you intone “and ramble in blackberry bramble” from a book we haven’t read in several months. Do you have a perfect memory for words? Why, then, does it seem impossible for you to remember what I said just three minutes ago? You do something forbidden. I gently correct you. You stop. I thank you for listening. And three minutes later it happens again. And I’m again patient and you’re again responsive. So why does it happen again five minutes later? You just proved you can remember what I say when you want to.

Do you want to rumble?

Peanut University

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Things I learned today:

A small child galloping through the house shouting “I’m helping; I’m helping” is absolutely irresistible. And probably not helping.

When a flashlight is pointed directly at a fetus in utero, the thing squirms as though it’s never seen light. This does not surprise parental units, but older siblings experiencing this find it hilarious.

If you explain to a three-and-a-half-years old person that you REALLY hope nobody teaches the cat how to open the bedroom door, and he asks why, and you tell him because the cat doesn’t know how, he will IMMEDIATELY think to teach the fetus. And he will explain to the fetus, incessantly, how to open a door, ending every lesson with “and then get into bed and cuddle mommy and daddy but don’t jump on the bed.” I guess those instructions are now part of the canon, repeated as they have been every morning for nigh on two years.

Here is how to build a ben: (Yes, before I give you the instructions, it’s *ben*. Took us almost 15 minutes to figure out what the hell he was saying, asking him if he meant bench or bin or is there another way to say this and no I don’t know how to build one but I’ll help if you can you just show me?)
Spread out all the long sleeve adult sized T shirts on the living room floor. Allow approximately one cat-sized space in between each “so we don’t have any dammits when the cats walk across the floor.” Take the sticks you collected the week before (you just ONLY use rain soaked sticks) and layer them on the shirts, weaving a perpendicular pattern until all the sticks are gone. Then add some rocks from the collection your mother didn’t know you had in your dollhouse. Leave the results out until you “need” to have cocoa, then bundle each ben in a heap on the couch until after nap, when you build them all again.

This University-level education has been brought to you by Peanut University: The Leader in All Things Bat-Shit Insane but Kind of Funny Nevertheless.

Just one day.

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I want one day.
ONE day in which I don’t need tricks and techniques and reverse psychology to get my job done. I want ONE day in which I’m in charge of only my own actions, in which I get stuff done without taking six times as long as should be necessary because it will be just me and the voices in my head.
I want ONE day in which things are easy; where I ask and things happen. Calmly. Happily. Without whining or crying or throwing or hitting or questions or bullshit. I want ONE g-dd-mned day where I don’t have to explain safety and society and polite and dangerous and inappropriate and unacceptable. ONE day where I don’t need to consciously reinforce all the good behavior of someone else in a DESPERATE attempt to stave off the batshit insane bad behavior that I can’t even label “bad” because it’s not the way I want to do things.
I want ONE f—ing day where I can just operate on my own list, focusing when I want to, spacing when I want to, and taking freaking breaths when I want to. One day with clear goals and outcomes, milestones and markers, measurement and metrics, respect and a f—ing paycheck.
I want ONE day where nobody tells me about their bowels or their bladder or makes me help them evacuate either. I want ONE day where I actually feel like I’m doing a good job. Where I don’t need a g-dd-mned book to give me suggestions for making things smoother and can operate without needing freaking experts telling me how to get through the day without homicide and suicide and infanticide and freaking increasing the shockingly low child abuse rate.
ONE day where I don’t have to explain or cajole or bargain or compromise or invent games to convince everyone but myself that life is fun and washing hands is wonderful and eating is jolly. One day where the growth, development, life, or death of people around me is really none of my concern and certainly not my responsibility. I just want to do my day.
I want ONE day. ONE. One. 1. Just one.
Or I want a 60 hour a week job so someone else does this b-llsh-t for me.
Never mind. I want an 80 hour a week job. The weeks I handled a 120 hour work week, all billable hours, I barely had enough energy to shower. I want that again. Someone else handle this. Someone who’s good at it. For just one day. Or maybe forever.

This week in Peanut 9/29

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Peanut told me yesterday that his rules are:

No holding hands in the street
Yell every time Daddy talks
Only give people money when you want to
People can only skateboard everywhere
Pinch the cats every day
Everybody wears only fancy pants
Only eat yucky things
No pants; only nude
You have to eat grass if you say no to things
No eating cereal, ever
and
Get under the blankets even if you’re too hot

I asked when he thought he got to make the rules.
When he’s 46, he says.

*****
P: Thank you for making me lunch, Mommy.
M: Wow. Thank you. That is really nice to say. That makes me feel good.
P: I know. That’s why I said it.

After the cat got sick all over his bed: “If he does that ever again, I will just poop in his bed.”

Parading through the house, banging pots: “Here I go on a outing without Mommies or boys and it’s fun and you can’t come!”

In the tub tonight: “My penis has wings!”

[Update: Spouse, who was manning the bath, has informed me that Peanut was playing ring toss with inflatable rings and was marveling at the RINGS not WINGS. Not sure which is funnier.]

Living with a newborn

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Okay, I haven’t done the newborn care thing for several years, but I’m gearing up and asked several parents of new creatures (plus looked at my old notes and favorite books) to come up with this list for you, dear reader, and new owner/potential owner of one of these new additions to our planet.

The best tips thus far:

To practice living with a newborn: set your alarm to go off every 15 minutes all day. Every day. Forever. Every time it goes off, completely change what you’re doing. If you’re eating, stop and go do jumping jacks. If you’re showering, jump out (shampoo and all) to make a sandwich. If you’re sleeping, pop up and recite concrete poetry. The inability to do anything for more than 15 minutes (and that’s generous) is your new life.

Set a different alarm for every two days. When it rings, change careers. Not just jobs within an industry. Totally change careers. Because whatever you find to soothe or entertain your baby will change every two days. And then you have to start all over again with your proverbial bag of tricks.

Some days, nothing will work. Just keep trying. You can’t solve every problem but you can prove you care just by being there.

Mark your calendar for 3 weeks, 6 weeks, and 3 months. All of them are growth spurts, and they’ll sneak up on you with an exhausting 2-3 day of every-hour-on-the-hour nursing. If you’re expecting your babe to feed nonstop for two days at each of these three milestones, it seems less daunting. Because you know that they’re always crying because they really are hungry.

That 3 month marker is even bigger than the other two because it also means your newborn becomes a totally different baby. Completely different. For some reason, all their pain (digestive, reflux, general distaste at being in a cold, air-based environment) dissolve. Even babies with real colic (you poor, poor parents) are different children after the 3 month mark. Schedule a deep sigh of relief at week 14. Because you’ve just won Survivor.

Every single piece of advice you get is optional. You are the boss. Follow your gut. Because there are hundreds of ways to do this. And your mother and pediatrician and friends may all be wrong. You are right because it’s your child. But if something sounds good, try it. All other advice can get “oh, our pediatrician told us to do it this way.” It’s much more polite than what I told people.

If you go back to work, breastfeed. If you have trouble, get professional help. I have seen lactation consultants solve problems nobody thought would resolve, including a friend who wasn’t making enough milk, a friend with terrible plugged ducts, and my own 4 month painful escapade with thrush and Reynaud’s syndrome (nerve damage) from the treatment of the thrush. Forget all the hype about IQ and bonding and stuff—breastfed babies get sick a lot less. And get better much faster. Since day care is the germiest place on the planet, if you don’t nurse you will miss more work days than you can count for a sick child. So though pumping at work is tough, do it. And the good news/bad news is that you don’t need to pump as much as you’d think (usually 3 pumping sessions for every 2 feeding sessions that you’re replacing) because most babies reverse cycle (choose to nurse all night to be near you when you’re home) and don’t eat as often during the day.

Keep snack and water by your bedside because when a small, helpless person cries to eat at 2am, you’ll find yourself ravenous, too (but unwilling to turn on a light).

Get a sling or a wrap of some sort. Otherwise you will never eat. Sure, you can sit down with a newborn to eat. But you need two hands to prepare most foods. And some newborns don’t want to be put down for the whole first 3 months. Three months is a long time to not eat. Or pee. Get a sling or a wrap. (There are tons of reviews online. I’ll tell you my preference if you ask. But this isn’t an advertisement. Just get one. Ideally not the one that puts all the baby’s weight on its tailbone, because those are kind of spinally misguided.)

Any decision benefits from the light of day. Never, ever make an important decision in the middle of the night.

In the middle of the night, when you think you’re the only one out there, the Internet is your friend. There are lists on things to try and videos of how to fix a poor latch and anything else you can think of. Try kellymom.com or babyzone.com or babycenter.com or your own favorite site so you can find to hear that other people have been through the same thing and made it through.

Now, really—mark 3 weeks, 6 weeks, and 3 months from the birth date on your calendar. Seriously.

Anyone have more universal tips on having a newborn?

This week in Peanut

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Upon request for more Peanutisms this week, let me introduce you to this week in my child’s brain:

“Mommy, will you come play with me and my dollhouse? Yes? Okay. You have to pay me two nickels and two dimes. And if you can’t pay me two nickels and two dimes today, you can pay six dimes and two dimes and then tomorrow you can pay six nickels.”

Sitting in front of my typewriter, the ribbon to which is long since dried up: [for the sake of your eyes, I’m deleting the “And then what happened?” after every line.]
“I’m thinking of a story about ladybugs. A ladybug was hitting people. Then the people didn’t want a sorry. Then the ladybug went home to get something big to hit the people with. Then the ladybug hit the people and they still didn’t want a sorry. Then the ladybug ate the people.” Was this aphids? “No, people.” And then what happened? “Nothing. Nothing happens after you eat. Except poop.”

“Mommy, if I’m whining, I will just ignore you because my ears don’t understand whining.”

“Daddy, if you don’t say it nicely, I just won’t do it. If you say please, I still won’t do it.”

[I don’t make these up, people. I write them down and type them verbatim.]

“Once upon a time there was a girl who liked E. She just liked E. And she became E and just sat there. Because she was a E.”

“When we go to H’s house, I won’t share any toys, and I will just bring my toys and not share and if she asks me to share I will yell ‘NOOOOOO. Get your own!'” It’s her house and she’ll have her own toys. “Oh. Well then, I’m not going.”

“Once upon a time there was a coyote. And the coyote looked and looked for some meat that had already died but it couldn’t find any. So it pushed down another coyote and stomped on it and then ate it.”

[Good thing I just read and saw Raising Cain, so I know pretend violence is not real violence and not something to fear and something inherent, it seems, despite my previous belief that boys and girls are really the same, that crops up in boys’ stories over and over. Because the same story repeated with wolves and lions. Thanks to the relatives who gave him the visual dictionary of the animal kingdom which led to questions about what they were eating that was red and why the deer fell down and why its bleeding and can it feel when it dies and I don’t want to do die and when I die don’t let anything eat me. And why do some people believe the feeling part of you goes to the sky to be happy and other people believe the feeling part of you floats like a ghost and other people think the feeling part of you dies, too?…No, really, thanks for that gift that keeps on giving this month.]

Things we learned today

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I’m working on those other requests, but today I have the following highlights for you:

The rookie human in our family learned that if you fill your pockets with rocks at the beginning of a hike for the mid-point lake rock throwing, you will spend much of the hike yanking up your drawers.
Caveat: true if you’re built like Spouse; no guarantees made if you’re built like post-weaning me.

The rookie mom of our family learned that if your small human fills his pockets with rocks, the action of walking 3 miles (no joke…I bribed him with two lollipops and a fistful of licorice, but he walked—without whining—3 miles. Did I mention that after the pockets were empty he walked another half mile? Uphill? A steep one? Kid is built like Spouse on the outside and like me on the inside.)
Anyway, if a pocket full of rocks is emptied of said rocks after 3 miles, two things are true: 1)rocks will have shed approximately 1/4 cup of dirt, all of which will go into the bed at naptime (you vets know to take them off first; I am a rookie); and 2) a standard cotton pocket will act as a fine sieve and a good portion of the dirt will filter through onto underdrawers and thighs, the result of which is impossible to shake out before nap. Believe me. After I found my mistake I shook that kid like…just kidding shaking is not funny. Except that it is.

I also learned that if you’re really crave making a whole pot of cream of potato ssoup just so you can pour it all over a casserole dish of your home-baked mac-n-cheese and eat it all with a soup spoon, maybe, just maybe, you need some sodium. But probably not that much.

And to cap it off, I swear, this is exactly the sixth step in a recipe for cream of potato soup.
“Add flour and create a rue.”
How would I create a rue? Burn the meal six steps in? Or get to the sixth step and realize I’m still eighteen steps from some damned soup?