Our oldest used to alert us to her deviant behaviour by saying, “Don’t look at me”. Sometimes she’d be caught doing something that she shouldn’t and before I could say anything she would say, “Too late. It’s already done”. As though she were saying – Look, Mom, you might as well not say “don’t do such and so”, I have already done it; let’s just move on to being friends again.
She’s either in training to be the worst criminal ever (“911? Are there any patrol cars near such-and-such address? I’m about to rob a liquor store”), or she’s developing a conscience.
One day after Halloween she’d reached her paltry limit of daily candy rations and was refused more. Shortly thereafter she asked me for the scissors so she could cut something (she has shown responsible scissor use since this previous incident) — but told me that I couldn’t know what she was doing. Only her sister could. I found her scissors and was going to let her be — assuming she was making her wonderful mother a wonderful card, but my mother-radar must have kicked in and I went into her room to investigate. She had a small package of 2 Starburst that she was attempting to open, and another one hidden under the pillow she was sitting on. Clearly her level of subterfuge is advancing (she was in another room, the package for her sister was hidden beneath her), however, she still has more learning if her criminal career is to amount to anything. Telling a mother that you are doing something that she ‘can’t know about’ is a red-flag, and, c’mon, at least close the door – or better yet, find a more discrete hiding place.
In her defence, she felt very miserable when her bad deeds were exposed, and she was sharing with her sister (you know, honour among thieves).
My youngest likes to add an “a” to the end of words. Mostly verbs. So we get things like: “I hugga da’ puppy”, “No changa da’ bum”, and “Let me fila da’ tax forms” (when it comes to money management around here, she’s the best we’ve got).
She, very frequently, does not respond to repeated (and repeated, and repeated) calls of her name. I’m pretty sure the name we’ve given her isn’t her name. Now I’m wondering, given her treatment of the English language, if we should have settled on an Italian name.
The other day my 4-year-old wandered into my room, and upon seeing my made bed, widened her eyes in surprise and said, “Whoa, Mommy”. She then asked if she and her little sister could “try out” my bed. She climbed up, laid against the pillows and asked, “Where is your blanket?” Thinking she was referring to a specific favourite blanket of mine, I told her it was in the laundry. She said, “No, what do you sleep under on this bed?”.
Not only did my made bed come as a surprise to her, but she was wholly unfamiliar with the concept of her parents made bed. I KNOW (in all-caps, bolded and underlined for extra emphasis) that I have made my bed periodically over the last 4 years of her life. It is not a sight unseen for her. But I shudder to think that it was long enough ago that she had no recollection of that bed being made. In my defence (if such lapses in housekeeping and parenting are defendable – and the iron-clad bastions of modern day social mores, women’s/parenting magazines and the internet, would indicate they aren’t), we have recently purchased a new duvet cover and it may just be that she’d never seen the bed made with that particular configuration. I am going to go with that explanation, if only so I can sleep tonight (in my currently unmade bed. Sigh).
Last night I had the glorious privilege of sleeping with both my kids (as sarcasm doesn’t always transfer well in an online environment, I will be plain: that is sarcasm). As I laid there NOT SLEEPING for a period of time, I plotted my 140-character revenge. My comment would be scathing (well, scathing AND funny).
And then the big one woke up, hugged me and said,
“I like you. You are so pretty”.
And now I know: that girl is a mind reader and she knocked the evil Tweets right out of my head. She may play a non-reading, JK-attending child, but she knows. She knows…
I try really, really, really hard not to be one of those parents who says, “Guess what my kid said” (or did, or the math problem he/she solved).
This is me failing at that objective (as is having the blog to begin with, I know, I see that).
A few weeks ago, I went on a canoe trip with my brother, sister and her husband, Dad and other family. Grandma graciously helped out with all the grandbabies left behind. One morning at 4:30am, my 3-year-old climbed into Grandma’s bed (a woman who is known for her loud snoring). A short time later Grandma awoke to said grandbaby poking her face and then chirping,
Is there any way you could sleep without making that noise?
Young people who are considering their life’s course, people who do not have kids and don’t want them, people who have kids — all have asked the same question — Why have kids? I will tell you why with this story:
The other day I was in the shower when I heard the door open and sensed a little person had entered the bathroom. I peeked around the curtain to see my preschooler clad in a paper crown made at Sunday School and placing a fire truck, a dump truck and a turtle on the floor in a precise line. She then got herself settled onto her potty. It was at this point that I alerted her to my peeking and said “Hi”. She said, “Hey, give me my pribacy” (I thought, hey, great time to teach ‘irony’, but let it slide).
But, this, this is why you have kids. Forget things like biological clocks, leaving a legacy, continuing the species, blah, blah, blah. How much more interesting is life when you can peek out of your shower curtain to see such a delight as the above scene?
I recently had the following conversation with my 3-year-old (hereforeto known as “Pumpkin”).
Me: You are so cute.
Pumpkin (solemnly): No I’m not. Daddy stole my cuteness.
Me: Daddy stole your cuteness?
Me: How did he do that?
Pumpkin: He got a glass of water, put it in, and took it away.
When Daddy got home she confronted him.
Pumpkin: Daddy, you stole my cuteness.
Daddy: I did? How did I do that?
Pumpkin: You got a glass of water, put it in, and took it away (Note: her story doesn’t change – this adds veracity to her tale. It must have happened as she says it did).
Daddy: How do I give it back?
Pumpkin: You have to get the glass of water and give it back to me.
This was accomplished by me handing the cuteness bandit a half-full glass of water that happened to be sitting by the sink, who handed it to his unfortunate victim. Apparently this righted our little universe and all was well again.
Where do they come up with this stuff?
And should I have gone into a feminist rant about how we do not let men “steal” our “cuteness”? Too much for a 3-year-old?