Showing posts with label crazy kid antics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy kid antics. Show all posts

Friday, May 14, 2010

Cheese

*Clap! Clap!*

"Very well, then children!" I say to J-dog and V-meister at the breakfast table on school picture day. "Let's practice your smiles. V-meister, you first."

The V-meister curls her lips up towards her ears in a tightly stitched crescent moon.

"That's not a bad start. Now, can you show me some teeth? But try to make it look natural, Okay? Less stick figure, more pageant queen."

The V-meister recreates the same expression, only this time with a dose of constipation.

"You are definitely on the right track. We'll keep working on it in the car."

Then, turning to the J-dog who is busy stuffing soggy Kix through a plastic straw I say, "Your turn, Jay-Z."

The little J-dog contorts the lower half of his face into a feral snarl.

"Hmm . . . Can I have a little less fang and a little more sincerity?"

"No."

"Okay, just do what the photographer tells you and try to act natural."

With that, I crossed my fingers and sent two neatly dressed and perfectly coiffed children off to school.






Meh. It could have been worse.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

You Can Dress Him Up, But You Can't Take Him Out

Last Sunday, the family Rama filed into an empty church pew and assumed the staggered parent/child/parent/child formation that has a proven track record of preventing child-on-child violence and disorderly conduct during Holy Mass. A few minutes later, a family with eight children arrived and sat down two rows ahead.

The people around them shifted uncomfortably.

The Von Trapps, who ranged in age from about one month to twelve years, were remarkably well behaved, but there were eight of them. About halfway through the service, the toddler contingent began banging sippy cups, draping themselves in various positions over the pews, and trying to engage the parishioners around them in lively conversation.

It was bound to happen - people started giving each other The Look.

Meanwhile, P-Dawg and I stood smugly behind them while J-dog and V-meister sat quietly leafing through their hymnals. Our compact and perfectly gender balanced family of four had managed to make it halfway through Mass without making a spectacle of ourselves, thanks in large part to the Natural Family Planners.

And then, in the middle of a quiet moment of church-wide reflection during which you could hear a pin drop, the little J-dog turned to me and announced :

"Mama! My PENIS is CHOKING!"


"WUT?"

Thursday, February 04, 2010

Unrepentant

And speaking of bread, the V-meister was caught red-handed throwing her sandwich away at school recently. When I arrived at pick-up time, her teacher pulled me aside to explain what had occurred.

"I noticed her throwing her untouched sandwich in the garbage can," she confided gravely, leaning in close. "It appears that the V-meister does not have a taste for whole wheat bread. But we had a discussion about it, and as a result, she wrote you this note," the teacher said, handing me an envelope festooned with hearts, balloons, flowers, and the word, "Mama" written across the front.

I waited until we were back at home to open and read my daughter's tender note of apology.

It said:


"Mama I do not like whole wheat bread so I want just wheat (white?) bread for my lunch please."


Nice.

(Tomorrow I'm gonna pack her the butt end of some European rye.) (Just kidding.) (Not really.)

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Vocabulary Lesson

As the J-dog was staring out the car window en route home from a weekend road trip, something magical caught his eye:

J-Dog: "Mama! I see a MackDONALD ovah dare! Right dare I see a MackDONALD!"

P-Dawg, feigning blindness: "I don't see a McDonald's, do you, Rima?"

Rimarama: "What is McDonald's?"

V-Meister, clutching her stomach and moaning: "I'm soooo hungry! Can we go to McDonald's, Mama? Puh-leeeeeeeeze? I think McDonald's would make my tummy happy. Because my tummy is very sad."

Rimarama, sighing dramatically: "Don't you guys remember what Daddy and I were just discussing? We are not going to eat at McDonald's today. It is not healthy. We are going home for lunch, and then we are going to visit some schools, capische?"

V-meister, resigned: "Cupeesh, Mama." Then, turning to her brother, "We can't go to McDonald's, J-Dog, because Mama and Daddy were disgusting, and they said, 'No'."


(Note: This picture is from a previous road trip - they did NOT get to go!)

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

The Informant

I always look forward to parent observation day at the kids' school because it's my once yearly opportunity to glean the answer to the mystical question, "What did you do in school today?"

(The J-dog learned to discern half notes from whole notes on the hand bells, and I also happened to notice that he zipped and hung his own coat up with ease. This from a kid who at home will feign total paralysis in order to avoid sticking even one appendage through an armhole without my assistance. As for the V-meister, she donned a pair of goggles and did a bit of drilling at the workbench before settling into multiplication bead work. It's a Montessori school!)

After the observation session, another parent and I were invited back to the Director's office for a Q/A and discussion session. We were talking about how well the children got along in general when the other parent (to whose son my V-meister recently announced her betrothal) brought up a name calling incident we had both witnessed.

"I have to mention" V-meister's future father-in-law said, "That we did notice one student call Logan Scully 'evil' for no good reason."

This immediately piqued the Director's interest.

"Evil?"

"Yes! Isn't that horrible?" the FIL said. "And Logan Scully was just walking along, minding his own business when it happened!"

The Director asked V-meister's FIL if he happened to know the name of the boy who hurled the insult.

He didn't.

I, on the other hand, did, but was loathe to divulge his identity for fear of being branded a narc. I had already given one girl the stink-eye earlier that morning when I witnessed her trying to wrestle J-dog's musical mallet from his hands.

"If I tell you, will you promise not to expose me as your informant?" I asked the Director, who assured me that the information would remain just between her, me, and the V-meister's future father-in-law.

"Okay." I said. "It was Hank Turner, and he called Logan Scully an evil butt!"

"Actually," the FIL interjected, "I thought I heard, 'evil gut'."

"What?" I exclaimed, incredulous. "It was definitely 'butt.' He called him an 'evil butt'."

"No, I'm pretty sure it was, 'gut'."

"Dude, that doesn't make any sense." I said. "Why would you call someone an evil 'gut'? It was definitely 'butt'. Evil butt."

"Gut!"

"Butt!"

"Gut."

The principal redirected us before we came to blows and shortly thereafter, we were dismissed.

But I don't know. As much as I like the V-meister's fiancé, I'm not sure I can let her marry into a family who doesn't know butts from guts.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Seconds

My parents took the V-meister on a day trip to visit her out-of-town cousin yesterday and the P-Dawg was working, so the little J-dog and I were left to our own devices. Before my parents pulled out of our driveway Sunday morning with our daughter, I made sure to remind my mother not to let V-meister out of her sight for any length of time, especially in the highway rest areas. "And if she touches anything - anything at all - don't hesitate to bathe her in this," I said, slipping her a trial size container of Purell.

A short fit of hysterics ensued when V-meister and I discovered that my dad had jerry-rigged her booster seat into his vehicle using an elaborate pulley system that did not at all match the diagram provided by our Owner's Manual. But this was quickly sorted out and then off they went, the V-meister radiating all the energy of a loaded spring at the delicious prospect of an entire day with her grandparents and sans the little brother.

J-dog and I spent a pleasant Sunday morning together. We braved eleven o'clock Mass and afterwards treated ourselves to lunch at the Nordstrom cafe. He was a perfect gentleman: coloring his menu quietly, making pleasant conversation, eating with utensils.

It was so easy, this out-and-about-on-the-town with only one kid business, that I decided to walk around the mall for a bit after lunch. We hurled some pennies into the fountain and darted into a store or two before arriving at Baby Gap, where I began perusing sale racks while J-dog peeked and poked around a nearby display as per his usual custom.

A minute later, he was gone.

I didn't panic at first, sure that he was just hiding. I had been standing at the entrance to the store and watching out of the corner of my eye, so I knew he couldn't have left. I combed the floor, looking for little croc clad feet poking out from behind a rack somewhere, but saw nothing. The store was connected through a door in the back to the regular Gap and so I did a cursory check of that (much larger) store, even though I was positive he couldn't have possibly made it that far in such a short period of time. It was a really short period of time.

Still no J-dog.

I went back to the Baby Gap and started calling his name loudly, starting to panic a little now because it was getting obvious that he wasn't in either of the two stores. I looked in the dressing rooms, the stock room, behind the counter, everywhere. People started to notice my growing hysteria and asked what he looked like, what he was wearing, what name he answered to. Before I knew it, one of the sales associates was radioing security with a bulletin and his description.

I peeked out into the mall, then ran back and forth between the two Gap stores, sure that he would appear momentarily. No longer a person anchored in time and space, I scurried frantically about and thought, "This is how it happens."

An eternity few minutes later, the sales associate, who was still radioing back and forth with mall security asked me to follow her out of the store. I was hesitant to uproot myself from the general vicinity where I had last seen the J-dog, but she was an authority figure and I a brainless creature on a fruitless trajectory.

"They think they might have found him" she said as the two of us walked-ran towards a mall cop who was standing by a fountain in the main atrium talking to someone on his radio. "I am not a bad mother," I said.

When we finally reached the atrium, I planted myself in front of the giant mall cop. "DID YOU FIND HIM? WHERE IS HE???"

"Just hold on, Ma'am!" he snapped, still talking to whoever it was on the other end, beads of sweat popping out over his brow. "Okay, now. Up that way, past the fountain, just by the main entrance."

So I ran.

And he was there. He had made it halfway across the mall, apparently following a woman he'd mistaken for me. As hokey as it sounds, in my mind's eye our reunion happened in slo-mo, me running with tunnel vision, blurry storefronts in the periphery, towards a still oblivious J-dog who was being held by a kind looking grandfatherly sort.

He hadn't been crying, probably had only realized he had been lost when I scooped him up and wept. I sat down on a bench with him wrapped tightly around my neck and that's when he started to sob. Even on the drive home, after we had both calmed down, he'd hiccup periodically and fight to catch rapid breath. I decided we would never set foot in the mall again.

Thing is, I honestly believed it couldn't happen to me. Because I am hyper-vigilant - I've caught the J-dog from falling backwards out of an open deck door with one hand and less than a second to spare while looking in the opposite direction. I regularly intercept falling sipping cups in mid-air and, until yesterday, believed that I had an infallible second sense with regard to my childrens' position in the universe.

And I will admit to you now that in the past, upon hearing the line, "I only let him out of my sight for a minute," I shamefully assumed that "minute" really meant "five" or maybe even "ten."

But it doesn't. It's a minute, maybe even seconds. And while I know that the little J-dog was probably in no real danger at any point during our little ordeal, those moments of not knowing were a loaded eternity. I almost didn't write about this because doing so is admitting that it actually happened, that I let my guard down long enough to allow my three-year-old to wander away.



Since we've been home, the J-dog has gotten a wad of Play-Dog jammed up his right nostril and squashed his index finger in a door jamb, which just goes to show you that home is not that much safer than the big bad world.

But still. SECONDS.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Can it Be the J-Dog's Three?

We celebrated the little J-dog's birthday this past weekend - he is three years old now and feels very strongly about things. Don't try to correct him, for example, when he insists that the Senior Transport vehicle in the next lane over is a SkooBus, or that those weeds in the median are not DayfaDales.

Things our newly minted three-year-old enjoys: talking to himself, singing at the top of his lungs, tormenting his sister, headbutting stuff, and being sinfully cute.



The V-meister was more excited about J-dog's birthday than the J-dog himself. She made him a gift back in early March and had it hidden in her closet all this time. It was so long ago, that I thought she'd forget all about it fo' sho, but on the big day, she ran excitedly up to her room and came down proudly bearing a cardboard box with a hand drawn card taped to the top. Inside, wrapped in a baby blanket, was an eyeball creature constructed from Kid Kinex pieces.


V-meister, helping to open the gift.

The J-dog was thrilled. He loves eyeballs. And it was heartwarming to see the V-meister display such tenderness toward her little brother. She's a good kid.


The bequeathing of Eyeball Creature. This picture doesn't quite capture the thrill.


Not sure what's going on in this one. An appendage re-insertion of some sort?

J-dog got a little stressed out when presented with his lit birthday cake, but was more than happy to eat it once all the singing/wishing/blowing formalities had been dispensed with. He is pictured here with his cake and best friend:


"OMGWTF"

One of his other birthday presents was a set of musical hand bells (if you are thinking of purchasing some for the three-year-old in your life, might I suggest that you not?) Although they are not being employed to make beautiful music, they do have some good uses.

Whenever I start obsessing about swine flu, the P-Dawg jangles the G chime directly into my ear. He's also taken to using bell therapy when one of the kids doesn't immediately respond to a request. You'd be surprised how hard it is to stay focused on despair or dawdle at bedtime when someone is all up in your face with a hand bell. And for what it's worth, the P-Dawg has told me it's not a pandemic until he says so.

Hell's Bells


P.S. I noticed that someone from Flippin, Arkansas visited my blog yesterday! I LOVE flippin' Arkansas!!!

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Memory Lane: Busier Than It Used to Be

With a little time to kill on our way to a christening, we took the kids for a drive along the lake shore yesterday and passed the spot where P-Dawg proposed to me almost ten years ago. With a captive audience buckled up in the backseat, I started waxing nostalgic about the glory days.

"Hey, V-meister, see that field over there by the water? A long time ago before you and J-dog were born, Daddy and I went for a walk here, and he got down on his knee, gave me this ring, and asked me if I would marry him!"

"Mama, J-dog is looking at me. Tell him to stop."

"There's no law against looking, V-meister. On the day Daddy asked me to marry him-"

"And he keeps talking! The J-dog is talking when I'm talking!"

"Just ignore him. Anyway, when your father proposed-"

"Aaaaaaaaaaaa! He KICKED me!"

"No! V-meister kick ME, Mama! She kick me!"

(commence stereophonic wailing)

P-Dawg: "Don't make me stop this car, kids. And quit kicking my seat back, J-dog, I mean it."

"Daddy, I can't stop crying."

"Why don't you take a deep breath and count to ten?"

"One, two, three, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!! I just can't stop!!!"

"Hey, kids, look at the lake. Isn't it nice? We used to hang out here all the time and-"

J-dog: "We go swimming, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go swimming in the ocean."

Daddy: "It's not an ocean, it's a lake. And no swimming! Church. We're going to church."

V-meister: "Daddy said no swimming in the ocean, J-dog. Maybe tomorrow."

Daddy: "J-DOG! I told you to stop kicking the seat back. You do that one more time, and I'm pressing the EJECT button. You got that? The EJECT BUTTON!!!"

J-dog: "I see funpark. We go funpark, Daddy?"

V-meister: "Daddy, J-dog wants to go to the funpark."

Daddy: "What are you talking about, "funpark?" There is no funpark. Church! WE. GO. CHURCH."

J-dog: We go church, Daddy? Is funchurch, Daddy? Is funchurch?"

Daddy: "YES! FUNCHURCH! WE GO FUNCHURCH AND WE LIKE IT!!!"


And so we did. Ah, how times have changed . . .

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Punny

J-dog and V-meister are quite fond of the knock-knock joke genre, although the whole concept of a punchline continues to elude them.

J-dog: "Hey, Mama, knock-knock!"

Me: "Who's there?"

J-dog: "Banana pants."

Me: "Banana pants who?"

J-dog: "BANANA PANTS!!!!"

Riotous laughter ensues. The J-dog and his sister high-five each other, practically falling off their chairs from the hilarity of it all.

When they've recovered, I take a stab at explaining the delicate nuances of linguistic humor and break down the anatomy of a knock-knock joke for them.

"Well, you have the delivery part down, J-dog, but what you need is a good punchline - an amusing play on words that tells a story while catching your audience off guard. Like this: Knock-knock!"

J-dog and V-meister, in unison: "Who's there?"

Me: "Boo."

J-dog and V-meister: "Boo who?"

Me: "Don't cry, it's just a knock-knock joke."

(Blank stares followed by polite chuckling)

Me: "Do you see how that works, kids? It's funny because 'boo-who' sounds like someone's crying, am I right?"

The two of them ponder this for a moment, and then V-meister has a lightbulb moment.

"OK, Mama. I got a good one for you. Knock-knock!"

J-dog and I, in unison: "Who's there?"

V-meister: "Banana cake!"

J-dog and I: "Banana cake who?"

V-meister: "BANANA CAKE!!!!!"

She can barely cough out the punchline because she is already ROTFLing. The J-dog gives her a standing ovation from his high chair and, if truth be told, I have trouble suppressing giggles of my own.

There's just something about bananas.

(They have a certain appeal.)

Monday, February 02, 2009

Project Runway: Pre-School Edition

When the V-meister's Scotch tape supply was compromised, she began cultivating an obsession with scissors.

The first order of business was to give herself long, side-swept fringe bangs, (which turned out pretty well, considering she was working with safety scissors and without benefit of a mirror.)

Next, she cut a series of swiss cheese-like holes in her pink chenille coverlet while P-Dawg and I were out on a date and the babysitter was engrossed in my copy of Twilight. I never did find out what the ultimate goal of that project was because upon discovering the carnage, I immediately launched into my "you kids have no respect for your possessions/do you think pink chenille coverlets grow on trees" speech. The next day, the V-meister hacked up her favorite purple princess gown.

It was decided that she would only be allowed to use her safety scissors under adult supervision, and yet the V-meister still managed to turn a small drawstring jewelry pouch into an outfit for her Gr00vy G1rl doll while I blogged in plain sight.


(Please note strategic positioning of "Liz Claiborne" label. Nice touch, V-meister.)

You see, it turns out that the V-meister isn't just carving up household textiles willy-nilly - she is designing couture.



This headdress (formerly a tutu) could take on Aretha's Inauguration Hat any day, although I have to say I'll never understand the fascination with putting underwear on one's head (happens more often than you'd think.)

The V-meister recently mentioned that her webkin doesn't have a stitch to wear. We're going to the craft store later to pick out some fabric remnants before she repurposes my bedspread into a cat sweater.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

But Seriously, What's It Gonna Take to Get Andrew Jackson Off of Them?

The P-Dawg and I had an opportunity to observe V-meister's Montessori pre-school class yesterday morning.

We were sitting as inconspicuously as possible in chairs towards the back of the room and taking in the work going on around us, when I overheard the following conversation between two little boys as they prepared to count out change from the pretend cash drawer:

Boy #1, picking up a five dollar bill: "Hey! Is our new president on this?"

The two of them inspected the five spot:



Boy #2: "That's not him. He's on the One."

A one dollar bill is extracted from the cash drawer and intensely scrutinized:



Boy #1: "That's not him, either. He's must be on the Twenty."

Two small heads bend studiously over a miniature twenty dollar bill for a solid minute before the following conclusion is reached:



Boy #2: "That is definitely not him."

Boy #1
: "Yeah, I guess they didn't get a chance to put him on yet."


(Maybe tomorrow, kids.)

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Obstinate Toddler Snubs Foods with Co-Mingling Ingredients

J-Dog Rama, 2, has been refusing to eat vegetables and foods whose ingredients touch, reports his exasperated mother.

“I slave away in my new gourmet kitchen with the granite counter tops and the double oven I have no idea how to operate, to prepare him nutritious and delicious organic meals, and this is the thanks I get,” snorts Rima Rama.

“The other day, I presented him with an exquisite bowl of chicken and dumplings, made from scratch. I myself found them so appetizing that I had to refrain from inhaling a second helping, but the little J-dog pushed it away with great disdain saying, “I no eat dis, Mama, I no eat dis.”

If he is not offered more palatable fare, the J-Dog will often skip dinner altogether, preferring to derive what sustenance he can by scavenging rogue Cheerios and dried bits of Play-Doh off the kitchen floor, then break his fast in the morning with milk and a waffle.

“He will only eat things in the brown/beige color palette” reports Rima. “The only exception is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she continued, “But even then, he has specific requirements with regards to presentation.”

Reportedly, J-dog insists upon crustless triangles.

"And don't even think about trying some fool stunt, like blending spinach into his smoothie" warns Rama, adding "I'm looking at you, Jessica Seinfeld."

"That kid can sniff out vegetables faster than a hound on a blood trail. It’s enough to drive you totally (redacted) crazy” she said, shaking her head. "In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn't developed scurvy.”



"Whatchu talkin 'bout, Mama? I just ate some a dis here Play-Doh."

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Hooked

There are two habits we cannot seem to break the little V-meister of:
  1. Taping her artwork to every inch of wall space in the house.
  2. Sucking her thumb.
We thought we might curb the interior decorating compulsion by cutting off her Scotch tape supply, so when the last roll ran out, she was told it would not be replaced. And all week she's been plotting, plotting, plotting ways to get her little hands on some of the sticky stuff.

The thumb addiction, however, is proving to be a real challenge.

The other night at bedtime the V-meister, whose been hard up for tape going on a week now, made the following suggestion:

"Daddy, maybe you could tape up my thumb? To help me stop sucking it?"

Now, you tell me, gentle reader: is the V-meister ready to kick the habit, or is she just jonesing for some Scotch tape?

Your guess is as good as mine.


V-Meister In Utero

Sunday, December 07, 2008

A Lesson to Live By


"Do Not Knock the Coffee Cup off the Table"

written, bound, and illustrated by V-Meister Rama (with special assistance from P-Dawg Rama)


Mama's making coffee.


Mama drinks the coffee.


Mama puts the coffee on the table.


Do not knock it off.


Watch for the sequel, "You Break It, You Buy It," in stores December 2009. (20% off when purchased together with "You Smelt It, You Dealt It")

Also in this series:
  • Don't Wipe that Booger with Your Sleeve (20% off when purchased with "And Don't Even Think About Putting It In Your Mouth")

  • Don't Eat That Cheerio off the Ground

  • You Are Going to Crack Your Head Open

  • Just Get in the Car

  • DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!

  • Oh, My God, SPIT IT OUT!!!

  • It's Always Funny 'Till Somebody Loses an Eye

    and

  • I'll Give You Something to Cry About

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Fears-R-Us

Last night as I was tucking her in, I suggested the little V-meister remove the bead necklace she was wearing, citing a potential safety hazard. (What? Accidents happen!)

Either she was employing some seriously advanced bedtime stalling tactics, or my firstborn is preparing for a career in law enforcement, because the V-meister then proceeded to catalog for me - with great zeal - a list of additional "safety violations" she'd gleaned from watching Lou and Lou Safety Patrol every morning on Playhouse Disney:
  • You should always wear a helmet when riding your bike. The helmet must match the color of your bike.*

  • Always make sure that your shoelaces are tied before riding your bike. Your shoelaces could get caught up in the pedals and you could fall over and hurt yourself.

  • Make sure your bike doesn't have a flat tire. You could flip over.
Bike safety is a biggie, people, so take note. Now, on to general safety hazards:
  • It is a safety violation to put anything in an electrical outlet or accidentally unplug Mama's laptop that has a dead battery.

  • It is a safety violation to stand in the middle of the street.

  • It is a safety violation to put your hand near a rotating fan.

  • It is a safety violation to climb up on your dresser and touch the Moon in Your Room because the Moon in Your Room could fall down on your foot**
Because I viewed it as a Teaching Moment (you know I snuck in a few very important safety violations of my own), and also because I was curious about the extent of V-meister's safety knowledge, I prompted her to continue.

I've never seen anyone more jazzed about the prospect of getting hit by a car or having a finger sliced off by a fan blade. Maybe it was just that lights out was being postponed, but the V-meister was absolutely giddy with excitement.

She tried to stifle the giggles by placing one delicate hand over her mouth, then took a quick moment to pull herself together, stating, "I shouldn't be laughing, Mama, because safety violations are not funny." But she just couldn't get it together, because, if we're honest, who among us is not nuts about safety violations?

I cut her off at Safety Violation Number One Hundred and Nine: "It is a safety violation to swallow big girl toothpaste," assuring her that our discussion could continue the next day.

The little V-meister was amenable to this prospect and fell asleep within minutes, visions of safety violations dancing in her head.

On the one hand, I'm glad that my daughter is so acutely aware of potential safety hazards and that she's taking them seriously. On the other, I suspect I may be setting her up for a tense and lonely life of worrywartdom, like mine.

Of course I want her to be vigilant, but I fear (DO YOU SEE? What I mean?) that it's too late and she's already been indoctrinated into my curmudgeonly cult of caution.

* The V-meister doesn't even freaking have a bike (it's a safety violation), and furthermore, I believe she used poetic license here.

** This one reeks of someone having actually climbed up on her dresser to touch the Moon in Her Room, don't you think?

P.S. You know what else is a safety violation? Running outside to photograph the hungry horny buck that wandered into your backyard to feast at the foot of your apple tree:

"You're dead, lady."

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

I Done Gave 'Em the Genius Gene

The little J-dog had his two year wellness checkup at the peds office this morning.

All is well, and no attempts were made to punch out windows or escape this time.

Progress.

Upon entering the exam room, Dr. W immediately noted the J-dog's verbal aptitude as he, perched safely in my lap, sounded out all of the letters on her wall posters.

Naturally, I took this as a prompt to launch into my cache of J-dog genius stories.

"He totally spelled, "stop" the other day, Dr. W, except backwards! We were in the car and the J-dog saw a Stop sign and he was like, "P-O-T-S! Pots! Can you freakin' believe it????"

Dr. W was duly impressed. "That reminds me of an eight month old I saw once whose mother insisted that she was actually pronouncing real words," she said. "And sure enough, when I set my desk clock down in front of the baby, she said, clear as the nose on my face, 'tick-tock.' It was truly astounding."

What Dr. W didn't recall, my friends, is that the mom WAS ME, and the baby was none other than my very own little V-meister.

My kids are clearly jeanuses genyuhsiz geniuses, and the V-meister is a pediatric legend in her own time.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

I'm a Four Year Old Trapped in a Peri-Menopausal Body

3/4 sleeve brown yoga t-shirt
linen capris
black clogs
amber earrings


Dear Internets,

I've been in a bit of a funk for the past few days, which is why I haven't posted. Strangely, I'm usually only motivated to write when I'm feeling buoyant. A blog post when I'm feeling down would look an awful lot like my high school diary, except I probably wouldn't write what I wore that day in the upper left corner.

Speaking of clothing, did you know that, when you are four years old, you are not permitted to wear an item of clothing that bears "Size 3T" on the tag? Any birdbrain (except yours truly) knows that this is folly and goes against all laws of reason.

If the item of clothing in question bearing the "3T" tag also happens to be white ("White is not my color, Mama! Pink is my color!!!"), well now, this results in a Level Four Meltdown accompanied by the Whining Cry of Maximum Irritation.

Which is worse even than the sound of nails on a chalkboard and makes me want to run around in circles with my hands over my ears screaming, "MynameisRima!Ican'thearyoumynameisRima!" And then jump out the window.

Except what I actually do is bring out ye old Drill Sergeant of Doom persona and raise my voice ever so slightly, much in the same way I imagine a banshee might. A PMSssing banshee on an empty stomach who has a vague sense of malaise about her life in general and has not yet had her morning cup of joe.

Oh, ya. I can act like a four year old any damn day of the week.

It is important to note, however that if a pink plastic Ikea spoon should happen to be proffered as a breakfast eating implement mere minutes after the white size 3T clothing debacle, it will be thrown across the breakfast table in in a fit of rage because what fool doesn't know by now that only the dark blue plastic Ikea spoon is fit to eat Cheerios with?

Again, that would be me.

P.S. I told my ob/gyn last time I saw her that my PMS is getting totally out of hand lately. She said, "Oh, yeh, well you're thirty-four. It's peri-menopause." ACK!

(MynameisRimamynameisRimaMynameisRima!)

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Everybody's Got a Voracious Ticker

In the car on our way home from school this afternoon, the V-meister put in a song request:

"Mama, I want to hear the one about the starving love. The song about the starving love."

I wracked my brain for starving love songs, but not a one came to mind.

"Mama! The one about the love that's so hungry! That one, I want to hear."

"Ohhhhhhh . . . heh, heh, heh, you mean "Hungry Heart" by Bruce Springsteen?

"That's what I said."

Then I spent the next ten minutes trying to explain the difference between radio and CDs to the little V-meister, who could not grasp the concept that there was no Starving Love to be heard on our car stereo at the moment she required it, and therefore continued to demand that the Starving Love song be played until the very moment we pulled into our driveway.

(I have no idea where she even heard that song, because I never listen to no sappy 80s stations.)

But, speaking of starving love and hungry hearts, check out this picture of the V-meister and my friend's son, V-boy, taken at the mall the other day just moments after he enlisted her to help him find a nice blue shirt just like his dad's, but smaller:


"Do you want to try Gap Kids?"

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Running From Scissors

Two children went in for professional haircuts yesterday; only one emerged shorn.

J-dog was down with it until he detected the sensation of cold scissor blades on the back of his nubile toddler neck.

No amount of animal crackers, juice, or entreaties to take note of the stellar comportment of the V-meister, who was getting an angled bob in the next throne over, could calm the hysterics.

In a near repeat performance of his Jazzercise child care room escape attempt, the little J-dog tried to nose dive out of my lap and make a run for the exit, but was unsuccessful.

We momentarily diverted him with a Dora DVD, but as soon as his toddler radar detected scissors returning for the kill, the J-dog freaked - screaming, foaming at the mouth, and spitting up animal crackers. I think his head spun around a few times too, but I can't be entirely sure.

Meanwhile, V-meister sat primly in her kiddy haircut throne, flipping her 'do from side to side and occasionally exclaiming, "Oh, I am looking so pretty! This haircut is sooooooo me!"

After a few minutes of this, I put the J-dog's stylist out of her misery, telling her it was OK to stop and that I'd try to finish the job during bath time later on. (And when I say, "I," I mean the P-Dawg).

And thus the J-dog's haircut ended only minutes after it had begun.

I was tempted to deny the little J-dog his craptastic plastic consolation toy (I mean, he didn't even complete the task at hand, which was to NOT WRITHE AND SCREAM for five minutes while watching cartoons, noshing on animal crackers, and enjoying some ambient salon tunes).

Because while I understood that the J-dog was frightened (he's gotten haircuts before, but it seems that his phobia worsens with each attempt), I couldn't help but be slightly irritated that this simple errand could not be accomplished. My blood runs toward the reptilian, what can I say.

In the end, he got a sticker.

"DICKER!", he exclaimed the moment he was free, and proceeded to run laps around the reception area like a man with a death row pardon, while I paid fifteen dollars for the pleasure of letting one hysterical toddler smear boogers, tears, hair, and regurgitated cracker paste all over the front of my shirt.



"Cut this, suckas!"

Friday, February 22, 2008

Studly

The P-Dawg picked out his son's outfit this morning:



He said it looked "studly."

Tomorrow I will post a picture of the P-Dawg and the J-Dog both in their studly hoodies.

A question for those of you with small children: At what age do you feel comfortable letting your child play alone in a "childproof" room? We didn't let the V-meister stack two blocks together without adult supervision, but we have a much more relaxed attitude with the J-dog, who has even been known to nuke his own Gerber graduate toddler meals from time to time.*

Lately, I've been letting him play upstairs in his room while I do important work elsewhere in the house. Sometimes I even forget to turn the baby monitor on.

But today, the little J-Dog wandered into the Utopia that is the V-meister's room and hit paydirt by upending her Valentine's Day goodie bag. I found him up there a few minutes ago EATING A SEASHELL.

So now I'm thinking that twenty-two months may be a bit too early to loosen the reigns and will resume helicopter parenting mode.

(Incidentally, the J-Dog is PO'd at me now because I wouldn't let him sit on my keyboard as I tried to type this post. He's standing at the front picture window crying for Da-DEE, who will be home from work in approximately eight hours.)

Good luck with that, little buddy.

I hope you all have a warm and fuzzy weekend!

*Of course not.