Friday, March 20, 2009

I Like Big Butts

“Wow. Your butt is like THIS BIG!!! (Hands held wide apart.) Congratulations on growing so big! My butt’s only this big (hands narrowed and almost touching).”
So begins some quality time with my 6 year old. There’s nothing I like better than having my children make personal comments about my body. Unless, of course, it’s making personal comments about my body in public. Clearly, the middle child honestly believes that having a big bottom is a sign of maturity. Just wait until she hits puberty. Boy am I going to remind her about her theory on tookuses.
The 3 year old named her body parts for the babysitter recently. I know this because I got a call from the babysitter’s mother.
“Just wanted to tell you something funny. Your 3 year old undressed last time my daughter watched her. ‘Here’s my arm,’ she said. ‘Here’s my leg. Here’s my bum. And here’s my VAGINA!!!’” My question? How come my daughter was out of sight long enough to get naked? I mean, the babysitter had been warned that any time the erstwhile baby left her sight she was probably doing something she shouldn’t be doing.
The 6 year old and 3 year old joined forces a few nights ago. This time, the conspiracy wasn’t verbal. At the 3 year old’s request, the 6 year old used her safety scissors to cut the baby blanket in which the youngest had been wrapped to be charioted home from the hospital. The blanket she sleeps with every night, which has traveled to every part of this great nation, and which has been the floor covering for countless tea parties. Not content with destroying one cherished heirloom, they proceeded to cut my husband’s blanket in half. The blanket he slept under his whole youth, made for him by his mother who has since stopped sewing. Both blankets, cut in half. I tell ya, why wasn’t their mother watching them better? Sheesh, you’d think she’d know by now…

Monday, March 16, 2009

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

I hate to be pinched. Especially when I’m not Irish and I don’t think it was very nice of St. Patrick to kill all the Druids. I’m not opposed to corned beef and cabbage, though, nor do I mind a good potato.
I think holidays are bizarre. I enjoy most of them, but decorating for St. Patrick’s Day? Don’t you think it’s a bit creepy to put up pictures of short men in green? And have you ever found a four-leaf clover? My mother could look down at a spot of ground and pull one up every time. I think she got our family’s whole share of lucky clovers, although I’m not sure it did her much good (besides the fact that she had me as a daughter, of course.)
Halloween is another holiday I find hard to understand. Okay, so pick a day and assume that on the eve of that day, all the evil beings, spirits, demons, etc, have free reign. Now, send your kids outside. In the dark. To play with the goblins. All Saint’s Day I get, but All Hallow’s Eve? I’m thinkin’ if I believed in that stuff, I’d spend the night at my local church. Actually, I wouldn’t, because I’ve seen too many scary shows where people die at the hands of priests-gone-to-hell. I don’t buy the spirits-walking-on-earth bit, so I celebrate the night in the same way most of you do. I dress my kids up as characters I’d never actually want them to be and send them to strangers’ houses to get food I don’t actually want them to eat. You don’t find that weird?
And a giant bunny, sneaking into your house to hide boiled eggs? What salmonella-loving-person came up with that? I swear, the next time someone gives me a plastic egg with real rabbit crap in it, I’m going to make them eat it (this has happened several times. I do not like practical jokes and I do not like poop in my hand.)
The holidays I totally understand are not real holidays and nobody celebrates them. Arbor Day, for instance. When’s the last time you even knew when it was, let alone planted a tree? I never do. And yet, I like trees. I approve of them. I think the world would be better off with more trees.
I also like Mother’s Day, but it’s a touchy holiday, isn’t it? I mean, the poor kids at my house. They are highly regulated on what breakfast offerings they’re allowed to bring me. Because soggy cereal makes me throw up and if my kitchen is a mess when I come down, it doesn’t count as a present, does it? I also give my husband a list, well in advance, of appropriate gifts. Coupon books, good. A t-shirt with a child’s face, bad. Art work, good. More smelly lotion, bad. This year, I’m requesting a tree. A Tilton apricot tree, available at Home Depot for $27.95. It must have budded and it should be planted in a spot I’ll show them. You can say I want the tree to remind me through the years of the joy my children bring, of the love we share, of family togetherness. But really I just love apricots. No one else in my family does. So, unlike other gifts, it’s a present I will not have to share.
Maybe we’ll plant the tree on Arbor Day. If we can figure out when it is.