fool me twice

What do these things have in common? Besides, of course, evidence of my need to stay away from Sephora and our local drugstore.

12 oz. Suave Kids 2-in-1 Shampoo Smoothers in Strawberry
6 oz. Bumble and bumble Sunday Shampoo
4 oz. Bumble and bumble Super Rich Conditioner
10 squirts TRESemme Touchable Softness Shampoo
3 squirts Laura Mercier Flawless Skin Face Polish

The drain. They have  the drain in common. As in, The Kidling decided they really don’t belong in their respective bottles; rather, they belong in the drain. In our drain, specifically.

Those of you who know me in real life might recall a certain Facebook lament regarding a rather pricy bottle of shampoo. It went something like this, “Saturday lesson: don’t leave a five-year-old child alone in the shower with a $25 bottle of shampoo.”

Well, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

I hate being shamed.

Alas, I deserve every little bit of shame you might choose to bestow for an incident that occurred one recent evening. I went into the bathroom to get The Kidling out of the shower and noticed the fill line on my super terrific, super expensive Super Rich conditioner was significantly lower than it had been upon her entrance into said shower. Before saying anything to Alice, I took stock of the situation. I observed:

  • The aforementioned depleted stock of fancy conditioner;
  • An overturned bottle of shampoo that was suspiciously not dripping product from its lid;
  • Some grittiness in The Kidling’s hair; and
  • A very, very clean shower.

Shit.

So I began the inquisition.

I asked The Kidling which products she had used. She gave me count of the number of squirts she had taken, including a confession that she had used “lots” of squirts from several of the bottles. I asked what she did with so many squirts, and she told me she had washed her hair and body as well as the shower’s walls and floor.

It is hard to be angry with a kid who did exactly what she was told to do in the shower and then decided to clean up after herself just to be nice.

So I laughed. Then I asked, “And when you were done, did you use a little more just to be sure?”

Silence.

Then, “Yeah.”

I hope she never grows up.

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premeditation

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.

housekeeping

Neither The Mama nor The Dada are on any short lists for Housekeeper of the Year 2012. The Mama likes to leave her project supplies in stacks all over the house (with little actual work transpiring on said projects), and The Dada—  Well, The Dada—

Shit. It really is all my fault. I think I feel a New Year’s resolution coming on…

Thank goodness kids don’t notice these things, right? No such luck. When The Kidling returned from a week-long stay at The Grandparents house in Nearby State just in time for her birthday party, she paused from her enjoyment of the festivities long enough to tell me—unprompted—“I noticed you cleaned the place up.”

Hell. We worked hard. At least she appreciated it.

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Confidential to my readers (Seriously, who do I think I am? Abigail Van Buren?):

My sincerest apologies for the conspicuous absence of Alice’s wee stories. It turns out a full-time job + blogging every weekday + the holidays + a certain precocious five-year-old child’s birthday party + sewing a rainbow table runner for said five-year-old child’s birthday party as if said five-year-old child gives a rat’s ass about a handmade rainbow table runner + parenting said five-year-old child + a twelfth wedding anniversary + a new before-the-crack-of-dawn running routine + eating + sleeping + breathing = a bit much. But the book of alice is back.

Missed you more.

The Mama is a cheater

So, the fine folks at WordPress saw Tuesday’s post fit to Freshly Press. Which is awesome. Because some of you lovely readers might be here for the first or second time today, I’m going to cheat.

Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater.

This post, originally posted this spring as sh*t my kid says, gives a pretty good picture of what life is like for The Family. So what are you waiting for? Get to reading!

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The Family has a pretty strict honesty policy (detailed in the footnote here. Yes, the book of alice occasionally uses footnotes. Apologies). This can make life difficult, or at the very least, awkward. The Kidling is very curious and asks questions about everything.

Really. Everything.

I’m usually prepared for the type of question she will ask. She wants to know why things work, how things work, why people behave certain ways… Not surprisingly, she also asks about why people look certain ways. This is not a big deal, typically. I’m usually spared the truly embarrassing moments, in part because she just doesn’t know to ask those questions. Alas, because I know The Kidling as well as I do, I wait for the question armed with the perfect, honest-but-kind response. For example, last week a friend’s dog got out and the lovely woman who brought the dog back had a beard and moustache. Not just a little shadow, but genuine facial hair. The woman was fantastic and clearly comfortable in her own skin, so when Alice said (loudly), “Mom! I want to tell you something funny. That girl has a beard,” I was perfectly confident responding simply, “Yes, she does. Everyone looks different, sweetie.” She isn’t too invested in gender roles (says the mother whose kid pointed out—loudly—a stranger’s nonconformance), so I figured that was all she needed. I was right. She went right back to her project with nary a thought on facial hair.

Sometimes, though, she kind of gets me.

Just Thursday we were at Kmart and she inquired—loudly—regarding the woman in front of us, “Mom? Is that a boy?” The woman was not amused. I said—loudly—in reply, “Of course not, sweetie! (nervous laughter) Of course she’s a woman! Remember when you thought I was a boy? Remember when I cut my hair and you thought I was a boy?”

Well, it turned out that if I had just shut the hell up, Alice would have explained her reasoning without all of The Mama’s hemming and hawing and attempts to soothe a bruised ego. She went on, “But she has a very deep voice.” And she did. So does Alice, so we talked about different types of voices and that was that.

And, of course, sometimes she really gets me. Like Sunday, when we were running errands at Target. I had run into a friend and we were chatting when “a person of abnormally small stature” walked by.*  Merriam-Webster wasn’t particularly helpful in producing an adequate synonym for me, so I quote their definition. Can you believe it suggested pee wee, pygmy, runt, AND shrimp!?! Really? Let’s substitute offensive words for other offensive words. Thanks, folks.

Anyway, the very small adult walked by and Alice was frantically—and loudly—trying to get my attention (have you noticed a theme here?):

Alice: Mom! Mom! Who is that?! Mom! Who is that?

The Mama: (I knew exactly who she was talking about, but didn’t want to make the idea of the ”other” so concrete by knowing without being told) Who, Alice?

Alice: Who is that? That guy?

The Mama: Which guy?

Alice: (points) Is that a real-life person?

The Mama: Yes, Alice. Of course he is a real person.

Alice: I thought he was a mascot.

The Mama: (Fuck!)

Now, readers, pardon me for indulging in the exact thought I had at that moment, but seriously. I was completely prepared to talk to The Kidling about very small people, very large people, freckles, wrinkles, red hair, facial hair, underarm hair, skin color, eye color, wheel chairs, walkers, and the myriad ways in which people can be physically different. I was not, however, prepared to talk about mascots.

Fuck.

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* http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/dwarf?show=0&t=1332734784 Sorry, dear readers. A JD makes a gal pretty paranoid about proper attribution.

phantom itch

“I have an itchy bum. I have an itchy bum, but there’s no mosquito bites, it’s just itchy.  There’s no mosquito bites because I bet the mosquitoes think they’d get stuck in there. They think they’d get stuck in my bum. Or in my vagina.”

-Alice Munchkin Kidling

November 8, 2012

 

an exit strategy

I confess that I am at a loss for how to start this one. The only thing I have for you is this: sometimes I prioritize humor over my personal dignity. With sincerest apologies, I offer today’s story:

Alice was in the mini-room when The Mama was… ahem… tending to her business. Not the stink-neutral variety of business, if you know what I mean. When the… ahem… fragrance hit The Kidling,  The Kidling hit the deck. On her way out of the bathroom, she said, “I know how to escape! Stay low and don’t smell.”

Wiser words were never spoken.

the truth, the whole truth, and … you know the rest

The Mama and The Dada take their truth-telling seriously. We have a fairly strict honesty policy (detailed in the footnote here) that we adhere to religiously. Almost. We encourage The Kidling to tell the truth even when it doesn’t suit her, and we do our damnedest to model the behavior even when it leads to some very awkward conversations… like this one. And I love (love) when it leads to unsolicited full disclosure. Like this:

Alice: I always tell the truth. Even when John tells the teacher something I don’t want him to tell her. Like when I do something bad.

The Mama: Can you give me an example?

Alice: Like when I hit him.

The Mama: Do you hit John a lot?

Alice: No. Only, like, once each day.

Poor John…