Tuesday night. 8:15 pm. The Kidling has been in bed for 20 minutes and has been getting up to complain about a variety of minor crises/concerns/excuses to get out of bed and complain. After the last concern (“my finger hurts“), The Dada said no more getting up unless there is a genuine, big problem.
Alice: (calls from upstairs) Dad!
The Dada: What is it, Alice?
Alice: It’s a problem. I have a big problem.
The Dada: What’s the problem?
Alice: I don’t have a diaper.
The Dada: What? (thinks) Umm… you know, you’re right. You don’t have a diaper. That is a big problem. (goes upstairs to help)
This past weekend, The Family was driving through a nearby town known for being… fragrant… A town that frequently elicits such comments as, “What’s that sme– oh. We’re in Nearby Town.”
Well, on this fine winter’s day, Nearby Town was not at fault.
The Mama was.
I *ahem* passed gas (please pretend you don’t notice this is a theme. Please.). Being the terrific role model that I am, I said, “excuse me.” Mind you, I could have tried the aforementioned line. The one that blames the stink on Nearby Town. But I didn’t. Good mama.
Now, I expected a typical Alice response. Something along the lines of, “Ewww. I don’t even want to know about it!” Or a benign, “You’re excused. You were already excused.” But not this day. For whatever reason, Alice’s olfactory sense (or her optimism) tricked her. Instead, I heard:
“I smell something good. Like those crackers we eat. It smells good, like crackers. Not like exhaust.”
I think the next time someone asks for an interesting or little-known fact about The Mama, I shall tell them my gas smells like crackers. It can now be cited as fact.
The Kidling asked me to help her with something this morning while I was making my coffee. I reminded her, as parents are wont to do, that I have only two hands (and no, I wasn’t going to stop making coffee to help out. Don’t judge. I dare you to try to parent The Kidling before your first cup of coffee). Alice, not at all upset by my choice of caffeine over help-rendering, had a brilliant idea to 1) remedy the situation and 2) lead a more productive life after said remedy was executed…
I wish you had 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 hands!
Thirty-one is to pet Margot!
And 13 is to hang a wreath!
And make oatmeal!
And to make coffee!
And to pour the coffee!
And the doors!
… at which point I exited the room to retrieve a pen and my trusty notebook.
Kids are gross. Really gross. But sometimes, even though this is a fact of which I am well aware, The Kidling manages to surprise me. Such was the case one day last week, when Alice was watching a movie and asked me to stop it for a moment.
The Mama: Sure. Do you need to go potty?
Alice: No, I was digging in my butt. I smelled my… I sniffed my fingers to see if I needed to wash my hands.
The Mama: Were they stinky?
Alice: Yep. I sniffed my fingers and knew I needed to wash my hands.
Ick. Ickickickickick. Ick.
* I used Wiki. Don’t judge. Also, don’t be surprised if my general estimate of the beginning of Homo sapiens is wildly off.
Alice was a great, big stinker Thursday morning. Super-duper-mega-fright naughty (that’s an Alice-ism. You might have guessed that.). Anyway, after the waters had cooled, we talked about it. I told Alice she needs to work on handling her frustration more calmly. She is pretty intense, and it doesn’t take much to set off a full-blown fit, particularly if her scant, 37-pound form has even a drop of fatigue (does fatigue come in droplets? Hmm. Whatever).
Alas, I told her we need to work on not throwing fits. My first mistake: use of the first-person plural when the reality was first-person singular. Yes. I am one of those mothers. You might recognize this as a pathetic attempt to temper the impending correction/criticism by saying “we” rather than “you.” This is all code for “I totally asked for what came next.” Which was this:
Alice: Yes. We shouldn’t throw fits. You shouldn’t either.
The Mama: What are you talking about, Alice?
Alice: You were throwing a fit.
The Mama: Alice Munchkin Kidling,* my job is to ensure you become a contributing member of society. Sometimes I have to raise my voice, but that does not mean I am throwing a fit.
Alice: (silence) (Any rational human being would expect silence after telling a four-year old that my job as a parent is to ensure she becomes a responsible and independent adult using those exact words. Duh, Mama. Just… Duh.)
* I think this will be my new code for using her first, middle, and last names. Whaddaya think? If you have something better, let me know. The prize will be a credit the first time I use it (but only the first. Sorry. It would get too cumbersome) as well as my eternal gratitude. Swell, huh?
We have a rule in parking lots. The Kidling must have physical contact with The Parent with whom she is walking. Typically, that means holding hands with The Mama or The Dada. When, for example, my hands are full, it occasionally means holding on to The Mama’s coat or purse.
Well, Alice was trying to push the limits the other day. I reminded her that she must stay with me in the parking lot. Alice replied:
“Yeah, because I could get smashed down. And then people would pick me up. Like Play-Doh.”
And that, dear one, is exactly why you must stay close. I don’t want a Play-Doh kid.
“I paused it in the middle. Its brain just ran out of batteries.”
-The Kidling, on her travel DVD player
I blew my nose the other day and Alice made a very loud, very obnoxious noise.
Well, I blew my nose again, and she made the noise again. Hmmm. Not a coincidence, I guess. I asked her to stop (It was obnoxious), and she told me, “I was just trying to overrupt it.”
Alas, we have another entry for The Dictionary:
O-ver-rupt: v. To cover or stop a thing by overpowering its sound. Overpower + Interrupt