“Geez, [insert The Dada’s first name here]. You weren’t supposed to do that! You weren’t supposed to go when that bicyclist was coming. You almost hit him!”
-Alice Munchkin Kidling
September 15, 2012
In [insert The Dada’s first name here]’s defense, he wasn’t even remotely close to hitting said bicyclist.
Sometimes The Kidling just don’t know what’s best for her. She sasses when a simple, “I understand” would remove her from an undesirable situation. She demands when a “please” would virtually guarantee her request would be granted. She whines.
And whines and whines and whines.
Other times, though, The Kidling gets it. I mean, she really gets it. Such was the case this weekend when we were packing for an overnight excursion. She and The Dada were choosing items to pack for her amusement on the long* car ride. They had gathered books, blankets, and buddies when Alice requested her portable DVD player. Before The Dada had a chance to respond, my pint-sized lobbyist reasoned, “It will keep me from saying, ‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'”
Well played, Alice. Well played.
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* All times expressed in units kidling. Translation=2 hours.
“I think the reason Curious George is named Curious George is because he is curious.”
-Alice Munchkin Kidling
December 13, 2012
One recent night… Who am I kidding? This entry in my notebook is from November. The Mama seriously needs to keep up on her blogging. As I was saying…
One relatively recent night as The Kidling was ready to get out of the bathtub, I noticed an impressive creation. Using some magnetic shapes, Alice had built an airplane. A bad ass airplane, if I do say so myself, and, since this blog revolves around the things that I do say so myself, then I will. Say so myself, that is.
That made exactly no sense, so you get bonus points for sticking with me.
Before I go on, a bit of background. The Kidling has been known to sneak out of bed after being tucked in with an excuse. She has to go potty/can’t sleep/is hungry/wants to apologize for her bedtime behavior/is thirsty/can’t find her dalmation/is scared/already got enough rest/(insert any excuse she can concoct that has worked at least one time before).
Where was I? Oh yes, the story. Thanks for sticking with me. Again.
On a typical bath night, Alice would take careful stock of the toys floating around the water to ensure all small toys are removed prior to draining. She is practical that way. On this November night, she wasn’t worried about the badass airplane she had spent the better part of her bathtime building. It was too big to worry about going down the drain. So big, in fact, that when I asked whether she wanted to move it toward the back of the tub, she insisted,
“Nu-uh. I’m not gonna move it. I don’t want to move it even when I come downstairs to say I cannot sleep.”
If getting out of bed after being bathed, groomed, read to, sung to, snuggled, and hugged/kissed/smooched/mooched/nooched/crooched/clooched,* and told “happy dreaming” is a crime, then I’m fairly certain that goes to mens rea.
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* Yes, we really do all of these things. Every night. They translate to hug/kiss/kiss/kiss/rub noses/big hug/gentle hug. This is why I think my kid is the best.
I might have mentioned The Kidling’s hoarding difficulty detaching from material things a time or two before. Given her attachment((s) (many attachments)), I have been known to sneak inconsequential things into the appropriate container for disposal or recycling under the cloak of night. Sometimes I get caught, but more often than not, my clandestine purges go undetected.
Thank god kids tucker out early.
And yet, the urge to keep, keep, keep is steadfast. The Kidling recalls artwork created many moons ago, and asks for it once a fortnight.
No, I have no idea how long a fortnight is, and I refuse to google it. It’s just funnier that way.
Wednesday night, Alice asked about a page from a coloring book she colored very long ago. It was a picture of a cat that she colored in October 2010. That’s right, a full 15 months ago, making The Kidling a whopping 3.75 years old when she took crayon to paper. But she remembers this particular creation for a reason.
When our beloved first child dog died, Alice colored this cat picture for her. Not necessarily logical, as Esti had no known affinity for cats, but awfully sweet regardless. When Alice decided the picture should be buried with our dear Esti as a gift, we were more than happy to comply. It was Alice’s last chance to do something nice for the dog we all loved so.
Fifteen months later, that cat picture hadn’t again crossed The Kidling’s mind. Until Wednesday. Wednesday night as I tucked Alice into bed, her eyes filled with tears.
“I want my cat picture,” she lamented.
Somehow, I knew the cat picture to which she was referring. And I knew things were going to get ugly. But I crossed my fingers and hoped I was wrong. “Which cat picture, Alice?” I asked, hoping for any answer but the one I knew I would hear.
“The picture I colored for Esti,” she cried, becoming more forlorn with each passing moment, “The one we buried with her.”
“Oh, Sweetheart,” I told her, attempting to reframe the conversation, “It was so kind of you to color that picture for Esti. I am so glad you decided to share it with her.”
No dice.
This time, wailing, she cried out, “But I want it back!”
“I know you do, Alice, but we shared it with her.”
“But I want it! I want my cat picture.”
“Alice,” this time, firmly, “That cannot happen.”
“Whhhhhyyyyyyy??”
“Alice, how ever would we get it back?”
And that, Dear Readers, was my strategic error, for I couldn’t possibly have anticipated the response:
“Well, we could dig a big hole and—”
No, child. We will not exhume our dog for a piece of paper. Case closed.
“Two hands come in handy. But one hand doesn’t.”
-Alice Munchkin Kidling
January 21, 2013
The Kidling has a terrific imagination. She makes up great stories and we have copious amounts of fun being generally ridiculous. While she occasionally lacks variety — Every song lyric she has ever composed includes the line, “I don’t know what to do.” Given that The Kidling sings an original composition on a near-daily basis, I hear that line an awful lot — her m.o. is funny, thoughtful, silly, outlandish tales.
And I like it.
Because sometimes, I get to hear things like this:
Alice: I’ve been calling myself Alexandra.
The Mama: (slightly surprised) Oh? Where?
Alice: In stories.
The Mama: Stories that you tell yourself?
Alice: Yeah. Stories in my head. Stories [that] I don’t even say them quietly.
The Mama: That’s neat, Alice. Can you tell me about them?
Alice: I don’t want to tell you. I want to keep them to myself.
The Mama: Sure, Sweetie. I understand.
Alice: (tells me anyway) Alexandra is a superhero! And Jack Frost! When Jack Frost came to town, then I wasn’t the favorite superhero any more. I have Jack Frost Power! (throws fist into the air) And Santa power! And sleigh power! And Rudolph power, too!!
It’s a damn good thing The Kidling got all those powers. I might have let them go to my head.
Sometimes Often, The Kidling is wiser than I wish she were expect. I mean, I am glad she is the most phenomenal human being I have ever encountered and could ever hope to interact with in this lifetime, but seriously. Can’t The Mama get away with something now and then? Case in point: doing odd things in odd places.
As you might have guessed, this wee blog is powered by many strategically placed notebooks. I have been known to make a dash for them in the middle of dinner, frantically yank them from my handbag whilst running errands, and enter near-panic mode when I cannot locate a notebook when genius or hilarity has recently ensued.
Thank goodness for the backs of cash register receipts.
So The Mama thought nothing of my recent perch for jotting down The Kidling’s most recent flash of brilliance. Until…
Alice: Are you going potty?
The Mama: Yeah.
Alice: While you’re writing!?!
The Mama: Yeah. Isn’t that weird?
Alice: Yeah. And kind of gross.
The Mama: You think?
Alice: Yeah.
A better blogger than I might ask for your input. “What say you, dear readers?” or a similar question to solicit your thoughts on matters related to this particular story. But guess what? I don’t care. Because without frantic scrawling in marker on construction paper, in pencil on gum wrapper, and in the occasionally properly-placed notebook, the book of alice wouldn’t exist.
So there.
And yes, I wash my hands.
kidlingville 