Annabel has many good one liners. Statistics are on her side. It's hard not to have some when you never stop talking. This weekend, Aunt Tammy and I took the kids down to Charleston. My favorite comment of hers on the way down. "Daddy had two ticks on him. I'm afraid of nature." Me, too, kid.
Aunt Ginny was in a car accident last year. She had a significant head injury. We explained to the kids very carefully that it was a serious situation. Aunt Ginny had to have a piece of her skull removed for nearly six weeks to allow the swelling to go down. Annabel stared. "So, Aunt Ginny has a hole in her head?" Yes. "Can I see it?" Maybe.
Well, Aunt Ginny got her skull fixed before we had a chance to all go down as a family. When we told Annabel, she began to sob uncontrollably. I kept explaining this was good, it meant Aunt Ginny was better! *sob* *sniffle* "But I love to see new and interesting things!! I wanted to see the hole in her head!"
Aunt Ginny is now fully recovered. We had lunch with her while we were in Charleston. As we all loaded back into the car, Aunt Ginny climbed into the back with Annabel. She was, of course, chattering away. "... and you have to wear a seat belt, or you'll get a hole in your head! Aunt Ginny, you lead a dangerous life."
Friday, June 29, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Glitter
I do believe that glitter is one of the most hated crafting supplies on the planet. At least, by those of us who desire to NOT have it in our carpets for the next eight years. However, I am such a dutiful mom that I have still purchased glitter, and even allowed my three and five year old to use it a time or two. I keep it, and a few other supplies, in a small plastic pencil box, hidden in the top of our supply closet.
Here's some background. I have a three year old that is just... well... Clara. She's Clara. I was putting the baby to bed one night. I handed her an itouch, and said here, watch one show, and then I will be back for you to put you to bed. What could possibly go wrong? Six minutes, yes, six minutes later there's a little knock on the toddler's door. The door swings open. There stands my Clara, shirtless, with a hammer, scotch tape and a pair of scissors. Now, I pride myself on my ability to not overreact. I had to accomplish this by standing in stunned silence. She pipes up, "I have a small problem, a tiny one." I said "oh, really? What problem is that" *pause* "I can't tell you. I'll be in trouble." *scampers off*
I put the baby down, and go a hunting. This was about six weeks ago. I never discovered what in the world was going on. Okay. Fast forward to this weekend. Clara is self sufficient in pottying, and I don't help her anymore. However, we were out together, and I happened to glance into the toilet. "Clara... is that... is that GLITTER in your poop???" "Yup!" "And how did it get there?" "I ate it, so that my poop would turn glittery." Well, of course! Thank you, Flip Flap Body Book. Needless to say, we had a discussion about how glitter is not for eating, and WHERE DID YOU GET THE GLITTER???? I tore apart her room later that night. Buried in the bottom of the clothes I'm putting away for next year is my secret box. Smashed open with a hammer, and scotch taped back together. Huzzah! I have discovered "the problem" that she had six weeks ago!
Today, I took her out to buy shoes, because nowadays shoes only actually last approximately three weeks before they become destroyed beyond recognition, lost, eaten by a cat, or in general destroyed. I hemmed and hawed between two different pair, because of the ten dollar price difference. Clara wanted the cooler looking ones. I was frustrated and said "what do I get by spending an extra ten dollars???" Because complaining to my three year old is a very mature decision, of course. And she looks me dead in the eye. "mommy, if you buy me sparkly shoes, I won't eat glitter anymore and I won't be sad that my poop doesn't sparkle."
I bought her the shoes that are not only covered in glittery sparkly things, but also light up. She seems pleased. I am pleased. She gave me the other vial of glitter she has been hoarding somewhere. This is well worth ten dollars.
Here's some background. I have a three year old that is just... well... Clara. She's Clara. I was putting the baby to bed one night. I handed her an itouch, and said here, watch one show, and then I will be back for you to put you to bed. What could possibly go wrong? Six minutes, yes, six minutes later there's a little knock on the toddler's door. The door swings open. There stands my Clara, shirtless, with a hammer, scotch tape and a pair of scissors. Now, I pride myself on my ability to not overreact. I had to accomplish this by standing in stunned silence. She pipes up, "I have a small problem, a tiny one." I said "oh, really? What problem is that" *pause* "I can't tell you. I'll be in trouble." *scampers off*
I put the baby down, and go a hunting. This was about six weeks ago. I never discovered what in the world was going on. Okay. Fast forward to this weekend. Clara is self sufficient in pottying, and I don't help her anymore. However, we were out together, and I happened to glance into the toilet. "Clara... is that... is that GLITTER in your poop???" "Yup!" "And how did it get there?" "I ate it, so that my poop would turn glittery." Well, of course! Thank you, Flip Flap Body Book. Needless to say, we had a discussion about how glitter is not for eating, and WHERE DID YOU GET THE GLITTER???? I tore apart her room later that night. Buried in the bottom of the clothes I'm putting away for next year is my secret box. Smashed open with a hammer, and scotch taped back together. Huzzah! I have discovered "the problem" that she had six weeks ago!
Today, I took her out to buy shoes, because nowadays shoes only actually last approximately three weeks before they become destroyed beyond recognition, lost, eaten by a cat, or in general destroyed. I hemmed and hawed between two different pair, because of the ten dollar price difference. Clara wanted the cooler looking ones. I was frustrated and said "what do I get by spending an extra ten dollars???" Because complaining to my three year old is a very mature decision, of course. And she looks me dead in the eye. "mommy, if you buy me sparkly shoes, I won't eat glitter anymore and I won't be sad that my poop doesn't sparkle."
I bought her the shoes that are not only covered in glittery sparkly things, but also light up. She seems pleased. I am pleased. She gave me the other vial of glitter she has been hoarding somewhere. This is well worth ten dollars.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Yes, Child, Obama IS Black
I am white. Very white. I don't really think about race all that much. Then I had children.
And then, election 2008 came about. Ah, Obama. The first black President. My dear friend Hannah turned me on to educational placemats. We turn meal time into learning opportunities at my house. And as soon as Obama was added to the Presidential placemats, by golly, it was proudly placed at our table. "Who's that?" This is President Clinton! "Who's that?" This is President Obama! "brown?" Yes, Annabel, President Obama has brown skin!
Of course, we were pleased as punch. Our child has been racially diversified. Never mind seeing people of every race and nationality every single day of their lives, living next to the research triangle as we do. We now have it on a placemat in our kitchen. Now all we need are multicultural Cabbage Patch dolls, and we will be hip parents, on our way to teaching our child racial tolerence and the beauty of diversity!
Nay, I tell you. After making the drastic parenting error of going through the car wash with CHILDREN in my car, I pulled over into a gas station / car wash lot. I took Annabel out of her seat to calm her down. As we stood next to the car, my little two year old suddenly got wide little eyes, and started trembling with excitement. Surrounded by at least a dozen people, my little angel started screaming and pointing. "OBAMA! MAMA, DAT'S OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA HAS BROWN SKIN! MAMA! IT'S OBAMA!!!!!" Lest anyone miss a word of this, she's wildly gesticulating to every person who isn't as lily white as we are. I probably don't need to tell you that the Presidential limo was not in this parking lot. I stuffed her back in her seat, as she craned her neck to see her placemat brought to life. "No, I want to see Obama!! Obama has brown skin!" We should have bought the Cabbage Patch dolls.
And then, election 2008 came about. Ah, Obama. The first black President. My dear friend Hannah turned me on to educational placemats. We turn meal time into learning opportunities at my house. And as soon as Obama was added to the Presidential placemats, by golly, it was proudly placed at our table. "Who's that?" This is President Clinton! "Who's that?" This is President Obama! "brown?" Yes, Annabel, President Obama has brown skin!
Of course, we were pleased as punch. Our child has been racially diversified. Never mind seeing people of every race and nationality every single day of their lives, living next to the research triangle as we do. We now have it on a placemat in our kitchen. Now all we need are multicultural Cabbage Patch dolls, and we will be hip parents, on our way to teaching our child racial tolerence and the beauty of diversity!
Nay, I tell you. After making the drastic parenting error of going through the car wash with CHILDREN in my car, I pulled over into a gas station / car wash lot. I took Annabel out of her seat to calm her down. As we stood next to the car, my little two year old suddenly got wide little eyes, and started trembling with excitement. Surrounded by at least a dozen people, my little angel started screaming and pointing. "OBAMA! MAMA, DAT'S OBAMA! OBAMA! OBAMA HAS BROWN SKIN! MAMA! IT'S OBAMA!!!!!" Lest anyone miss a word of this, she's wildly gesticulating to every person who isn't as lily white as we are. I probably don't need to tell you that the Presidential limo was not in this parking lot. I stuffed her back in her seat, as she craned her neck to see her placemat brought to life. "No, I want to see Obama!! Obama has brown skin!" We should have bought the Cabbage Patch dolls.
Well, Don't I Feel Stupid
Children do not think like adults. Yet, I keep expecting my two year old to be logical. Perhaps this makes me even less logical than I'd like to believe.
Annabel has been a pretty good sleeper for over a year now. She has always gone down without a problem. Recently, she decided that it was scary in her room, and has started migrating to ours when Wil is working nights. I don't particularly enjoy sleeping with feet rammed against my kidneys, so I sat her down for a chat tonight. She said "maybe mommy unplug the light, then Annabel won't be scared." I wasn't sure how to respond. I said that I thought she liked her light. "yeah, Annabel can't see if mommy turns out light, so Annabel can't be scared." Huh. Okay. I unplugged the night light. Haven't heard from her since.
My husband has realized this, much to his chagrin as well. He's been asking me how I handle her being scared of a dog eating her at night. He's been putting her special blanket, that dogs can't get through, on top of her and checking the door to make sure it was shut. What did I do? I showed her a package of dog food. I told her dogs eat dog food, and Annabel isn't dog food. Haven't heard about that one anymore.
Annabel has been a pretty good sleeper for over a year now. She has always gone down without a problem. Recently, she decided that it was scary in her room, and has started migrating to ours when Wil is working nights. I don't particularly enjoy sleeping with feet rammed against my kidneys, so I sat her down for a chat tonight. She said "maybe mommy unplug the light, then Annabel won't be scared." I wasn't sure how to respond. I said that I thought she liked her light. "yeah, Annabel can't see if mommy turns out light, so Annabel can't be scared." Huh. Okay. I unplugged the night light. Haven't heard from her since.
My husband has realized this, much to his chagrin as well. He's been asking me how I handle her being scared of a dog eating her at night. He's been putting her special blanket, that dogs can't get through, on top of her and checking the door to make sure it was shut. What did I do? I showed her a package of dog food. I told her dogs eat dog food, and Annabel isn't dog food. Haven't heard about that one anymore.
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