Tag Archives: comedy

no more fun

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The Kidling is a lucky little munchkin in more ways than I can count. Most importantly, she is safe, her basic needs are all tended to, and she is loved.

By safe, I mean followed around and hovered over. A bit.

By basic needs, I really mean “and then some.” A little bit because we work hard, but mostly because we are fortunate and the world has been kind. Don’t go getting any crazy ideas. She doesn’t have her own iPad or anything, but when she needs new shoes, she gets them. And they’ll probably be cute.

And by loved, I mean worshipped (hence this blog’s name).

You know what puts the lucky-Kidling-o-meter over the top? Alice adores horses, and Grandma and Grandpa have three. Notice I didn’t say we have horses. That would require an acreage we cannot afford, tack we have nowhere to store, farriers I know nothing about (as evidenced by the fact that I spelled it with an “e” before autocorrect saved me), and far more time than we have to ensure they have adequate care and attention.

No, having horses at Grandma and Grandpa’s is the best case scenario for The Kidling. Not unlike a niece or nephew, we get to have all the fun and hand them back when the diaper gets dirty…

But with much messier accidents.

So dear darling child had a fantastically good time yesterday with Grandma and Grandpa’s equine friends. Too much fun, it turns out, because at bedtime she declared, “I will only go to sleep if I can ride a horse right now!”

That settles it: no fun for you.

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prevention

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You have probably heard this before, but The Mama loves her cruciferous vegetables.

And beans.

And green juices.

Which is all to say that I can be a bit… well… gassy. This should come as no surprise to regular readers. “Flatulence” shows up on my list of commonly used tags. And for good reason! See here and here. It should be a little embarrassing. But whatever. The Mama has a body to take care of. If that means I have to be stinky, so be it.

Yeah. Take that, olfactory glands.

Anyway…  I was particularly fragrant one recent evening (which is saying something), and Alice thought there might be a way for me to prevent some of the stinkiness I was inflicting on The Family.

I am indeed raising an optimist.

First, she commanded me to “Flip over on [my] back!”

The better to contain the stench, my Mama.

Then she had a more lasting solution, “Dad’s going to take a giant step. Like THIS! (stomps) Then it’s going to shoot you out of the house and you’ll toot outside!”

I can get on board with that.

unders

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As in “wear.” Underwear.

This post might not be suitable for adolescent boys, my father, stepfather, or father-in-law.

Consider yourself warned.

The Mama has a fondness for fancy panties. Not to be confused with fancy pants, fancy panties are a clandestine indulgence for my comfort and general happiness. I am boring about said panties, and have exactly one style in two colors: black and nude.

Practical, no? I never said it was exciting.

The problem with my beloved, if practical, fancy panties is that I have a tendency to leave them on the floor. And I have a dog. Who has a tendency to chew on anything made of paper or fabric that she finds on or near the floor. And did I mention that I am cheap? While I obviously throw away anything that gets destroyed, I might or might not have a few pairs of fancy panties with a small hole.

The Mama is one classy lady.

Which brings me to this anecdote. I know you wondered where the hell I was going with this one. I was getting ready for work yesterday when The Kidling noticed a small hole near the waistband of my boring fancy panties.

“Mom, you have a hole in those,” she informed me.

I pretended I didn’t know it was there and thanked her onto pointing out the deficiency. She, in turn, offered some unsolicited advice: “Maybe you should throw them away so there isn’t a hole where you pee from.” *

Throw them away? Waste not, want not, girlie. Nice try.

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* Which, by the way, was not actually the case. But it was darned funny.

guessing game

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Last week, The Mama traveled for work.

And The Dada carted The Kidling off to Nana and Papa’s house.

Before you judge (which I obviously set you up to do), this was kind of justified. The Dada stayed home with The Kidling for four of seven work days (three because pre-school was closed for conferences, and one because she was sick). Then I got sick. Then he got sick.

Oh yeah, and it was his birthday.

See? A fully justified abdication of parenting duties.

The Kidling was lucky to spend the weekend with Nana, Papa and her cousin, The Kidd-0.

And Nell. The cutest damn dog on the planet.

The Dada being a good dada-type, he drove to Nearby Town to pick up The Kidling and The Kidd-o and cart them back to Our Town.

And our car on the drive home is the setting for this story. You see, the girls spent approximately 3/4 of the drive drawing pictures in notebooks. They are both five, and you might have heard that five-year-old children do not realistic artists make.

Suddenly, The Kidling had an idea. She thought that one girl should draw a picture and the other should guess what the drawing is meant to depict. The Kidd-0 took the first turn as artist. When it came time for Alice to make her guesses, she scrutinized the drawing carefully. After several moments, she guessed.

Alice: Is that some kind of weird-looking robot?

The Kidd-o: No.

Alice: Is it a strange underwater sea creature?

“No,” The Kidd-o lamented, “it’s a sheep!”

know your limits

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You might recall that dinner time can be a struggle at The Kidling’s house.

What’s that you say? You weren’t aware of that? You thought The Kidling was a perfect angel who sits politely at the table, eats every vegetable The Mama places in front of her, chews with her mouth closed, sits still, eats until she is full, thanks me for the delicious meal, asks to be excused, then clears her plate without being asked? Let me remedy that misconception.

As I wasn’t really saying. Dinner time + The Kidling = Struggle.

I hope you are paying attention, because there will be a quiz… if I can ever get around to finishing this story.

The Family’s dinner time rules—that eating and conversation are the only two activities acceptable for executing during meal time—are frequently ignored. More often, though, they aren’t ignored, exactly. No, the balance is just disproportionately skewed toward chatter.

Lots and lots of chatter.

Chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter.

So one evening in mid-January when The Kidling paused her dinner, fork in hand, to tell me what was going through her head, I wasn’t at all surprised by the interruption

What did surprise me, though, was what was going through her head. On this evening, Alice told me, ”I’m never going to point this at you. I’m never ever going to kill you. I never want to be a pirate… but I do want to find gold! I’m not going to steal it, though.”

At least she knows her limits.

forward

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The Kidling’s ability to observe, synthesize, demonstrate, practice, and master new concepts never ceases to amaze me. A little sponge, she learns especially even the things I wish she would not. Still, some new tasks and concepts are difficult for my wee Einstein. The things she picks up with ease and those with which she struggles are neither predictable nor classifiable. She adds new vocabulary to her repertoire with astonishing ease, yet cannot consistently distinguish her ”M”s from her “N”s.  She skips like an old pro, but is still struggling with the ever-elusive cartwheel.

Perhaps the funniest of Alice’s struggles is dressing herself. Now, I don’t mean The Kidling can’t put on her socks, shoes, pants, or sweaters herself. She even has buttoning under control. I mean, seriously. Buttons are hard. But they are no match for The Kidling.

Though she may have a seemingly inexplicable phobia of cardigans as an adult.

But The Kidling has met her match with her undergarments. Underwear, underwears, undies, unders… No matter what name we give this formidable foe, they present a challenge. And because The Kidling does dress herself every morning, The Parents often aren’t aware until bathtime that she has been foiled, yet again, by that tiny swath of cotton. On that final step before sweet, sweet freedom to play to her heart’s content in the tub, the ever-present adversary presents itself with a baggy front and a too tight back, with bows on the inside and tags on the outside and, my personal favorite, with one butt cheek entirely exposed because she squeezed her tiny little body into a leghole and has one leg through the waist.

But The Parents remain steadfast that The Kidling needs to get this figured out. We are more than happy to help with those tricky undergarments whose printed-on tags have since faded, but otherwise, The Kidling is on her own to figure out which way is up. Last night before bed, when Alice was getting into her jammies, she was unconvinced of her ability to conquer the panty puzzle. I suggested that she hold them up and try to figure out which way they needed to go, then go ahead and put them on. If, after trying and testing, they were on crooked (or backwards, or sideways), then I promised my assistance.

But she didn’t need my help. Why? She had figured out the answer to the underwear quandary. She had learned a universal truth, and told me so, declaring the answer to be simple: “My labia is smaller than my bum.”

True enough.

premeditation

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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.