Fabric is your friend

A while ago, my sister was telling me about a fellow teacher whose 7-year-old niece cut all the butt cheeks out of her underwear because her mother refused to buy her a thong. Sadly, they make thong underwear for second graders. Claudia spends a great deal of time 'digging' her wedgies out. I can't even imagine what a thong would do to her...(REASON #679: Why to NOT purchase thong underwear for children).

The other day, Claudia was standing next to a teenage girl who was sporting one of those mini-skirts that looks like a denim ace bandage wrapped around her waist, twice. Due to her 3 foot stature and the bottom of this girl's skirt coming 4 feet off the ground, Claudia apparently saw more than she had bargained for. If only I had a camera to capture the look on her face.

I remain hopeful that when my girls are seven-ish, they will beg for Wonder Woman Underoos and that the trends of MY teenage years are hip and happening for theirs: baggy bib overalls and flannel shirts wrapped around one's waist. Although, they could do without the mall bangs and Camaro hair. Lord knows I did my fair share of Ozone damage for all three of us.

Miss Smarty Pants

A few nights ago, I walked Nixon and the girls down to the park. Upon arrival, Claudia was excited to see so many "friends" there. (Anyone under four feet tall is considered a "friend".) The following conversation was had with one particular "friend" who darted up to us as soon as we stepped onto the playground:

Friend: "Hey, what's you dog's name?

Me: "Nixon."

Friend: "I don't like that name."

Me: "Really?"

Friend: "Yeah, I'm not going to pet your dog. My mom is allergic to dogs and she is going to be here in a little while to pick me up. I don't want to have your dog's germs on me."

Me: "ok?"

Friend: (while rubbing her dirty little mitts all of over Mallory's face) "Is he a boy or girl?"

Me: "She's a girl."

Friend: "What's his name?"

Me: "Her name is Mallory."

Friend: "Oh, he's cute."

Claudia: "Hey, what's your name?"

Friend: "Katie"

Claudia: "My name's Claudia"

Katie: "That's a weird name"

Claudia: "Yeah, you wanna swing?"

(Conversation moves to the swings)

Katie: "Hey, you are not swinging right. You need to kick your legs out when you go up and move them back when you go back."

Claudia: "You wanna go high in the sky? Hey mommy, push me high in the sky."

Katie: "Let me push her"

Me: "Um, ok. So, how old are you, Katie?"

Katie: "I'm five. In another birthday, I will be six. Do you know that everyone has a birthday. Even your dog has a birthday. Did you know that?"

Me: "I sure did"

Katie: "How old are you?"

Me: "32"

Katie: "WHOA!"

Claudia: "Push me high...high in the sky."

Katie: "Actually, I push people according to their age. You are little so you don't get to go very high." (true story, this five year old used "actually" and "according to" in the same sentence)

Claudia: "Higher! High in the sky."

Katie: "Just a little bit.....OH OUCH!!!!" (she dramatically grabbed her back like I've seen my grandmother do) "Oh! I just wrenched my back!! (true story, this five year old used "wrenched" in a sentence)

Me: "Are you okay?"

Instantly, a scene flashed into my head. We were in a courtroom and there sat Katie representing herself. She had just slapped a massive lawsuit on my three year old for pain and suffering.

Katie skipped on over to the curly slide, confirming to me that she was ok. I decided to cut the evening's park visit short. My geriatric butt strolled my cute little boy and swing-inapt daughter home along side my poorly-named, germ-ridden pooch.

Mistaken Identity

When Claudia was a baby, I was certifiably crazy about distinguishing her sex to the public.  I wouldn't leave the house without her in at least two pink-drenched articles of clothing, covered by a pink blanket.  Still, people would mistaken her for a boy.  Perhaps it was her lack of hair. Whatever the case, I would take personal offense to this mistaken identity..."Oh, how old is he?", they would say.  "SHE is blah, blah, blah months old."

This time around, I find myself more laid back on so many levels.  The other day, Mallory was dressed in a pale blue outfit.  She visited the doctor, went to the grocery store, then spent the afternoon with me at the frame shop.  A nurse commented, "Boy oh boy. He's getting big!" The grocery store bagger said, "Ahh, he's Mamma's little helper."  And, one of our customers pointed out how happy our little guy was.  Before, I would have been quick to correct.  Now, I just play along, "Yep, growing like a weed", "Quite the little helper", "He's always so happy."  

It's just not worth putting a perfect stranger on the spot by correcting them due to their inability to see the one true determining factor beneath the diaper.

Appleboo's

This morning I helped my friend, Amanda, do a little home decor shopping. Claudia and Mallory were good sports about schlepping around in a cart while she and I dug through hundreds of throw pillows, mirrors and wall art. Afterwards, we decided to hit the mother of all chain restaurants, Applebee's.
About two sips into my french onion soup, I heard a loud crack followed by an even louder scream. Claudia had slipped while sitting on her knees in the booth. She hit her mouth on the window ledge and bit all the way through her bottom lip. Blood was flowing. The waitress was of great help in getting us a towel, ice and the check. She shared with me that "her son busts his lip open all of the time so, she would be just fine." I knew Claudia was going to be fine, I just wanted to get out of there, head to the frame shop (and Mark) seconds away, to determine whether a visit to Dr. Leedy was needed.
As I was trying to get Claudia buckled in while holding ice on her fat, bloody lip, I heard Amanda talking to someone. There, behind the vehicle, stood the Applebee's shift manager holding a clip board and jotting down Amanda's take on the incident. I waited for Amanda to get in...and waited...and waited. Finally, I stuck my head out the window and semi-politely said, "Excuse me, is that something we can take home and get back to you?" He then started asking me a series of questions. I know it's protocol and this guy was just doing his job, but really? Never in a million years would it cross my mind to sue Applebees or hold them financially responsible for medical expenses incurred from my daughter's clumsy mishap...or my negligence for that matter.

Booster or butt..no room for debate.

She's fine, by the way. No doctor visit, no stitches. She's actually quite proud of her swollen, pouty lip.

Mr. Monster

My favorite grocery store has good deals, a great cheese selection and a Starbucks to greet me at its entrance. I have mastered the art of grocery shopping while drinking coffee. Instead of trying to push and steer a grocery cart one-handed, I find pulling from the basket end is much easier. This is actually the case with or without a beverage. Plus, my view isn't obstructed by a car seat or a three year old trying to "surf" in the cart.

Today, as I was dragging the cart down the pasta isle with coffee in hand, Claudia started crying. Since she was behind me I had no idea why.
When asked, she screamed, "A MONSTER!"
Where?
"Right THERE! It's a MONSTER!" I turned to look in the direction she was pointing. There stood a man about 6'8" with long hair and dark sun glasses (think Jeff Bridges in "The Big Lebowski"). He was completely harmless, but this is a girl who gets freaked out by Sesame Street's Abby Cadabby. I apologized and sped away.

As I was standing at the self-service check out, waiting for the attendant to, once again, push her magic button, guess who got in line directly behind us?

Claudia started in again. I began scanning groceries at the speed of light. Of course, in doing so, I knocked my coffee over. I asked the attendant for some paper towel to clean up the mess. She looked down and gasped, "What IS that?" as if one of my children had just had a loose stool crap-o-rama or vomited brown water all over her floor. I grabbed the paper towel, cleaned up the "bile", swiped my credit card and got the hell out of there.

Needless to say, Mr. Monster got a kick out of the whole episode.

Coach

It is not uncommon for Claudia to ask anyone and everyone their name. Usually, if it's a mom with a baby she asks, "Hey, what's her name?" (no matter the baby's sex), or an older woman gets, "Hey Grandma, what's your name?", etc. Some people respond, others blow her off.

My mom watched the girls last Saturday. While at a store in Lafayette, they ran into Gene Keady. Predictably, Claudia asked, "Hey, what's your name?" Surprisingly not one of the 'blow-er off-ers', he smiled and sternly responded, "Coach".

It turns out he is not the vicious child-eater I had him pegged for. I'm just grateful she didn't say something along the lines of, "Hey, what's on your head?"

Port-A-Pot Predicament

Yesterday, I took the girls to Penrod Art Festival. I knew trying to navigate the double stroller through hundreds of art enthusiasts on the IMA's uneven grounds would present a challenge, but this turned out to be the least of my worries. About two hours into our outing and a hot dog, popcorn and bottle of water later, Claudia announced to me that she needed to go potty. I pulled out my map in search of the nearest restroom....and by restroom, I mean port-a-pot alley. As we were standing in line my mind was racing, "how am I possibly going to assist my newly potty-trained toddler in a 3' x 3' crap closet while managing a baby in a stroller?" It was finally our turn and as luck would have it, we got a pot on the very end. I parked the stroller and begged Claudia not to touch anything. With one leg out, one leg in and my tush propping the door wide open, I was able to successfully keep an eye on Mallory in a mob of strangers while holding Claudia over the poop pit. I never thought I would say it, but at times like this I prefer a kid in diapers.

Other highlights of the day were:

• Robert Indiana's "Love" sculpture
• Claudia's papyrus paper masterpiece
• The Budweiser clydesdales and dalmatian