Jokes

Jokes have been the topic of much confusion and interest around here, but sadly, almost no skill. For one thing, many of the jokes an adult knows are inappropriate for children. But even when you go down your short list of appropriate jokes, it's surprising how often a joke depends on a person having a certain amount of knowledge. Without that knowledge, the joke isn't funny.

What did Cinderella say when her pictures were late?
"Some day my prints will come."

This is only funny if you are familiar with getting film developed or printed off at a store somewhere and that they are called prints. This may not have relevance to a child who is familiar with printing pictures at home and has only visited one hour photo labs and who calls pictures "pictures" and not prints.

In other words, illustrating what goes into making a joke funny has been extremely difficult. The girls laugh at jokes out of obligation, not because they think it is funny. And they think nothing of coming up with their own joke.

"Why did the dog dance?" Imogen asked.

"Why?" I said.

"Because he wanted to go for a ride!" she said. Genevieve laughed. (She's the perfect audience.)

"Is that a joke?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Was it funny?" I asked.

"Yes," Imogen said. "The dog danced! Duh."

I reflected that I did not teach my child to say duh, and she probably learned it at a school where she also takes etiquette classes.

"Do you get it now?" Imogen asked.

"Um, no," I said.

"I'm no good at making up jokes," Imogen said dejectedly as visions of being the next David Letterman were killed before her eyes.

"People don't usually make up jokes. They hear jokes and they tell them to other people," I said. So I told her a knock knock joke.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you going to open the door?

Ok, so I don't know all that many jokes myself. I googled for kids jokes and now I know a lot more.

How do you catch a unique rabbit?
Unique up on it!

HA!

More is better

It was Imogen's turn to help me in the kitchen. We were making spaghetti. Imogen chopped the ground beef and poured the jar of sauce in the pan.

She asked, "Did I make this by myself?"

I said, "More or less."

"More or less..." she said quietly to herself. "I hope it's more..."

Don we now our gay apparel...

Now, I love Christmas. But I hate all the cheesy, tacky and just plain ugly things that come with it. There's something badly wrong with a holiday that produces a sweater like this... "embellished with fiber optic lights!" Seriously.

Imogen's drawing

Imogen's drawing style has recently changed to reflect body mass (rather than stick men) and more details which includes very large ears, googly eyes and creepy looking teeth.

Labels are also important.

Internal alarm clock

I have been getting up at 5:30. I wish I could say that I've been getting up at 5:30 because I've been going to bed early and thus have been getting plenty of sleep, waking up refreshed and ready to go at 5:30 in the morning. Alas, it is not so.

Genevieve, however, seems downright perky each morning as she knocks on my bedroom door to say that she is hungry/bored/not tired/lonely/afraid of the dark/etc. Children are surprisingly less adorable when the sun goes down.

I used to be sympathetic. I mean, poor kid, afraid of the dark. But now I don't care. Sleep deprivation does that to you. I've explained many times that nothing will get her. I bought her a night light and even took off the little plastic shade so that it shines directly into her eyes. I allow her to get up and turn on additional lights in the house without comment. But she's rather disrespectful of other people's sleep. I can ignore the hallway light being turned on. I cannot ignore it flashing like a strobe light while she flicks it on and off and on and off. I commented rather loudly on that one (we were all awake anyway).

The girls have been ordered to stay in bed till Jeremy and I get up. Our alarm goes off at 6:30 and I think that's unpleasantly early enough. And honestly, neither of us care at all if they wake up and get up and do something extremely quiet. But nooo, they are out of bed with all the subtlety of a marching band, playing with toys, getting into loud arguments, or banging on my door and claiming they are starving. I yank open the door looking like death itself and scream something to the effect of, "THEN GET A PIECE OF FRUIT OR SOMETHING I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT GO AWAY I'M TRYING TO SLEEP ARE YOU INSANE!!!!!"

Then Genevieve cries because I yelled. And I can't go back to sleep because she's crying. I have to say, it's been a great way to start my mornings. Every morning. Except Saturday but only because they are at Jeremy parents' house behaving like perfect angels and sleeping till noon or something.

Outdated technology

I remember when I first heard about the Internet. I remember playing text based games with no graphics. I remember when the coolest thing our computer did was Paint. I remember my first clunky gray cell phone. I remember the first person I met who had a digital camera. I didn't really get the concept.

My children are growing up in a world that never lacked these things. Once I found a disposable camera in the back of some drawer and took a picture of them. They wanted to see it on the back of the camera immediately. I took tons of pictures of them for my photography class last semester and they finally got used to this appalling limitation of 35mm cameras. Last night Imogen asked me if I would teach her how to use Photoshop when she is eight.

My kids have spent more time on cell phones than regular phones in their lives. All "regular" phones are cordless phones. The inconvenience of not being reachable at all times doesn't really occur to them. Oh and cell phones all have cameras. They are growing up in a world that not only has always had email, but where small hand held devices like cell phones and electronic organizers can email.

My microwave died a couple days ago. It's basically a very large digital clock now. Today I went to heat something up for Genevieve's lunch and I put it in the microwave, punched in the time and it again failed to turn on. I sighed and dumped the soup into a small pan to heat it over the stove. I was on my (cell) phone with a friend (who I met online).

"My microwave is broken," I complained. "Can you believe people used to have to boil everything?"

I found a new way to torment my children

The fun thing about kids is that sometimes they don't realize you are torturing them.

So, today, I invented a new game. A game any adult would call "cruel and unusual punishment" but which my kids thought was fabulously cool. I told them to close their eyes and hold their arms above their heads, and I would tickle them and whoever put their arms down first lost.

And they actually cooperated with this. Surprisingly, Genevieve won both times. She held her arms straight up, squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated on "turning her tickle spots off" which she can do alarmingly well for a five year old. I've never met a child that young with that much will power and frankly, I don't see what the fun in that is. (No wonder she's so much trouble.) Imogen put her hands on her head, closed her eyes, then peeked constantly and kept bending over so her elbows would be at her sides.

Then, when I got bored of the new game, they got annoyed and begged to play some more.

Genevieve's song

Genevieve has never been very devoted to eating. Imogen will wolf down her food then leave the table. Genevieve plays, talks, goofs off, sings songs, instead of eating. This morning, while staring at her tiny amount of honey nut cheerios (it's not like I'm feeding them gruel), she was singing. After a while of ignoring her, I tuned in and this is what she was singing.

Aaand, I wish I was a shirt.
A nice shirt.
I would let people put me on.
And I would be so nice to them.
I would be beautiful.
People love beautiful things.
Evil people I would be mean to.
I would hit them if I had arms.
I wish I was a shirt that had arms.
I wish I was a shiiiiirt!

And I wish I was a chair...

At this point I interrupted with much regret and told her to get dressed. She had about 30 cheerios in the bottom of her bowl and she barely ate any of them. She's really not much of a breakfast person.

I have bangs

Cool, huh?

My evening...

It's raining, but my evening got a lot more wet when Imogen noticed a Sonic and inexplicably became hysterical because we had not gone there in a long time. Imogen gets like this sometimes. Not about Sonic, but hysterical for no good reason. Usually after a night of not enough sleep. The next day, she runs out of steam and fixates on something minor and is completely irrational about it. There's no talking her out of it. If you demand loudly enough that she drop it, she will move on to some other utterly insignificant issue so it's no use even trying to cheer her up. Imogen was informed (as she sobbed about her lack of french fries) that she was being unreasonable and that she needs to pick up her room.

Also this evening, Jeremy was helping me cook dinner and he said, "I just don't understand how you can fail to appreciate the benefits of well chopped ground beef."

I laughed hysterically before informing him that it's not that I dislike well chopped ground beef. It's just that I'm not particularly passionate about it.

Dancing

I forgot my cell phone, so when I went to pick up Jeremy, I couldn't call him to tell him we were there. So we went inside, racing the fat raindrops to the door. But the building was locked up. A janitor let us in but Jeremy's department also locked. We decided that he would figure out that we were there eventually and we went back down to the parking lot.

The rain had already stopped, but the sky was dark and ominous with light breaking through in various colors at the horizons. Imogen sought shelter from the wind in the van, but Genevieve danced wildly under the strange sky, somehow infused with an energy that made her ignore the cold. She laughed as the wind whipped through her hair. I squinted up at the building and noticed Jeremy peeking through the blinds from his office.

"Daddy has seen us!" I said. "He will come and rescue us!" Both girls shouted gleefully and Imogen joined Genevieve in the near empty parking lot. She paused to say, "I'm dancing for joy!"

Imogen must know why she dances, I suppose. For Genevieve, it is enough to dance.

Sisterly love

Today I told the girls they needed to pick up in the family room. They accomplished exactly nothing, of course, but this didn't stop them from fighting about it. Finally Genevieve came to me in the next room crying that Imogen had coughed on her new umbrella. "She said she's going to cough on all my things!" Genevieve said. I gave her hugs and demanded that Imogen apologize.

Belief

Children seem to constantly categorize things. Two of these categories are "real" and "not real". For instance, the other day Genevieve asked me if unicorns were real. I said no, but somehow still go into some conversation about how much more expensive they would be than horses if they were real. Either way, Genevieve was disappointed to have to put those in the not real category.

The Tooth Fairy has been a confusion. I was recently unmasked as the Tooth Fairy, but I never confirmed it. I always pretending to be shocked at the allegations, but I figured the jig was up. (I never denied it either- I don't believe in lying to my kids.) However, last week when Imogen lost her forth tooth (while trying to open a water bottle with her teeth), I forgot to perform my fairy duties that night. And the next night. After two nights Imogen was really upset. I was openly sympathetic and mentally kicking myself for having forgotten two nights in a row. (What kind of fairy am I??)

Anyway, that day while Imogen was at school, I rushed home after one of my classes and stuffed three dollars in an envelope and traded it for the tooth. When Imogen got in the car she quizzed me about my whereabouts that day in an effort to see if I had been away from home long enough for the Tooth Fairy to have stopped by. That's right. Somehow the unreliability of the Tooth Fairy has convinced Imogen that I'm not her after all. She came to this conclusion completely on her own. I should feel flattered. Mostly I'm confused. Don't my kids know me? But apparently they have not outgrown the idea that Mommy is really terrific and would not have failed so abysmally.

We got home that evening and Imogen was thrilled, of course. "Three whole dollars!" she said.

"Three dollars?" Jeremy glanced at me. "Overpriced tooth..."

"Maybe the Tooth Fairy felt guilty for not coming the last two nights," I said through clenched teeth.

As fun as the Tooth Fairy is, I've always thought Santa Clause was idiotic. I grew up not believing in Santa. My parents spoiled us like crazy and they wanted credit for it! As do I. Last year around Christmas, Imogen asked me if Santa was real. "No," I said bluntly. She paused, thinking about that and then said... "I don't believe you." What??

You've got to be kidding..

Doctor's visit

Imogen went to the doctor yesterday. She's six and a half (four feet, one inch tall) and still hasn't had the shots she was supposed to get when she was five. Why? Good question.

We used to visit a doctor in this same practice. We switched when he told me that "Someday she's going to need to figure out that you're the mother and she's the child." Now, I know when my kid is being a brat and I don't really tolerate my kid being a brat. Genevieve happened to be completely terrified, and her doctor and his nurse were being impatient and rude about it. So, new doctor. Same practice though. Which means they use the same charts. Which means that Imogen's lack of vaccinations should have been clear to them when she was brought in for allergies, an odd rash, and various other minor complaints. But no one bothered to tell me that she was in need of shots, and it's not like I've memorized the vaccination schedule.

Her current doctor was perplexed at why they had not reminded me about it, but didn't really make a big deal about it. Her nurse, however, came in with the shots and mentioned that it was "really very shocking" that Imogen hadn't had them yet. I made some kind of minor noise of assent like "mm-hm." She continued, "Kind of scary actually."

Scary? Give a break. Imogen's had all sorts of vaccines in the past. She's at least partially protected against these diseases, most of which are very uncommon in the US. It's not like we've been hiking through villages in the Amazon where polio is going to just jump out and get you or something. I think this "shocking, scary" routine is a little on the paranoid side.

Furthermore, if she was trying for some kind of guilt trip, I really don't appreciate the effort. What's with medical professionals being rude to me? I didn't say anything to her about it, because I didn't want to be rude in front of my children, and I didn't want to be rude right before she was going to stick needles into my child. So I just let it go. But it's just annoying.

Of a humorous nature...

My children understand the question-answer format of a joke.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: To get to the other side.

What they don't understand is the concept of a joke. The idea behind it. Which is, of course, to be funny. Their jokes tend to lack this essential element. However, they are well versed in the etiquette of a joke- specifically, that after the joke is told, it is polite to laugh. Or cackle uproariously at the top of one's voice. Whatever.

After I gently suggested that maybe she doesn't understand what a joke is supposed to be, Imogen offered to tell me "her best joke". I listened attentively.

"How do you make a house talk?" she said.
"I don't know, how?" I said.
"Throw a stick at it!" she said, and laughed. Genevieve laughed (Genevieve is the perfect audience). I didn't laugh.
"I don't get it," I said.
Imogen frowned at me. "That's my best joke," she said.

Tonight, in the car on the way home, I was talking to Jeremy while the girls played in the back. During a lull in our conversation, Imogen spoke up.

"Mommy, I like to trick people," she said smugly.
"Oh really?" I said.
"Yep, like this," she said. She held out two fists. "Pick one!" I twisted around in my seat and tapped her left hand. She opened it to reveal a button. There was a pause.
"I don't get it," I said.
"It works with Genevieve," she said.

A moment later she was trying again. "Pick one!" I tapped the left hand again and this time it was empty. "HAHA!" she laughed triumphantly.
"I don't get it," I said again.
"I tricked you!" she said.
"Was there a button in the other hand?" I asked.
"Yes," she held it up.
"Then it's not a trick. I just chose the wrong one. What's the trick?" I said.
There was a long pause. "Well... it's a trick because... it would have been in this hand.... but it... wasn't..." she said.
"Oh..." I said. "That's not really a trick."

How to be Mean to Your Child

I could probably publish a book on this topic but honestly, that's not something you should brag about, you know?

Changing the subject completely...

The other day I was playing a silly game with Genevieve where I held out my hand and said "Gimme five!" and she would try and I would pull my hand away so that she missed. Over and over. I would let her hit a few times to keep her interest. But mostly she missed. Then I put my hand on her lap and so whenever she missed she would hit her own leg. I would cackle madly and she would growl dramatically at me. Then I moved my hand to her chest so that she was hitting her chest whenever she missed.

You would think she would see where this was going. I moved my hand to her forehead, palm facing outward and said "Gimme five." And she did. Or at least she tried, and I yanked my hand away and she smacked herself in the forehead. I about died laughing.

Imogen was watching and thought this was very clever so she decided to try to pull the same trick on me. Only she didn't quite get it. She put her hand on her own forehead and said "Gimme five, mommy!" And when I tried to, she pulled her hand away so that I smacked her forehead. The look on her face was priceless.

We try to limit ourselves to only very mature humor in this house.

Genevieve's artistic skills

"What is this?" I asked.
"Oh Genevieve drew that," Jeremy said. "It's Zeus."
"Zeus..." I said, staring incredulously at the drawing.
"Well you know... he's furry..." Jeremy said.
"And being electrocuted," I said.

Tortillas

I went shopping on Saturday. Grocery shopping. I hate grocery shopping. I have a budget and you know, that's no fun. Either way, I brought home to food, and made Jeremy carry it in and made him help me put it away. He pulled out a package of tortillas. He kind of shook his head, half confused but half resigned. Then he put the tortillas in the fridge under the other two packages of tortillas.

"Ah well... you know how it is.." I said vaguely.

"Right," he said. He doesn't understand how I am capable of going shopping with neither a list nor a clear idea of what we already own. I say that I don't need a list because I forget to put things on it, or I forget to bring the list, or I lose the list on my way there, or I lose it somewhere in the store. And no one can keep track of exactly everything that they own. You're bound to forget something and buy something you already have.

Sometimes I worry that I have some kind of subconscious fear of running out of tortillas and sour cream, but honestly, it's not like we're throwing these things away constantly. It's more like we simply have plenty on hand. Just in case.

On Sunday I made tacos. Jeremy pulled out the top package of tortillas, which were stacked by age, oldest on top because he (strangely) doesn't have faith that I will carefully examine all the packages in the fridge before I decide which one is worthy of my taco meat. I made a face at the package.

"They're fine!" he insisted.

"Oh?" I said suspiciously. "What's the date on them?" Now, dates on packages of food are a sore subject with us. Jeremy insists that if something is dated for, say 9/17/07, then that is the date by which the makers of the product were hoping to sell it. To me, the food is spoiled at 12:01 AM on September 17 of 2007. So perhaps Jeremy can be forgiven for sighing at this question as he looked for the date on the tortilla bag.

"August of 2007," he said. "They're fine!"

"AH HA!! I knew it! You're always trying to make me eat old food!" I said. I made a show of meticulously examining the tortillas under the light, sniffing at them and flopping them while squinting at them. We mustn't let him think he can shove any old food at me and I'll just eat it.

Ants

In the car today, Genevieve says out of the blue, "Ants can see all around them."

As she was carrying her Happy Meal to the table after we got home, she stopped suddenly and turned around and recited, "An ant is an insect because it has six legs and three body parts." She turned and walked to the table to eat her lunch.

The Saga of the Shoes

The girls get a lot of hand me downs from Jeremy's little cousins who are not so little as my kids. Nowhere is this more helpful than in shoes. I barely buy them shoes, and in fact, we have too many of certain types of shoes. Imogen was told to choose three pairs of sneakers and the rest are put in the closet to await Genevieve's feet.

One pair of shoes that Imogen received was a very nice pair of black shoes that was perfect for school. They looked like they hadn't even been worn. They fit her well. Perfect. Except that she hated them. She concocted various reasons for this, and finally, in irritation, I took her to Target to buy her another pair. I'll spare you the details of that shopping excursion. Suffice it to say, that there were no shoes there that lacked the features about the shoes she had at home that she claimed she hated, but nevertheless, Imogen was very passionate about the need for new shoes. So after much heated debate, I bought her a new pair.

She liked the new ones, and that was what was important. I figured she had the right to have a simply irrational dislike every so often and I wasn't going to insist that she support all her likes and dislike with documented reasons. She wore the new shoes for the first few weeks of school.

Until yesterday. She misplaced the new ones so she put on the old ones and wore them. In the van on the way home she said "I ran on the play ground and these didn't slip off at all!" This was one of her reasons she hated the shoes. (I mentioned to someone that she "disliked" the shoes and she corrected me, "No, I hate them.")

"That's nice," I said.
"I think these are my favorite shoes now," she said.
"You have got to be kidding me!" I said.
"What?" she said.
"After all I went through for your shoes? You like those now? You are the most impossible child I have ever met," I said.
"Well, maybe not my favorite," she backpedaled.
"They can be your favorite," I said. "But you are the most impossible child I've ever met."
"God made everyone different," she said.

Yeah... "different" is one way to put it. I had to laugh.

My back yard

Yeah, this was a drag. We had to get the sewer lines moved in our yard because of serious tree root issues clogging up the pipes. Why can't I spend money I don't have on fun things?

Pictures

Imogen tried on my sunglasses and I managed to get her to pose like this. Awesome.


The girls have been taking turns helping me in the kitchen. I had Genevieve cook the taco meat for me the other night. She sat there happily chopping it to death and Jeremy was very happy because he's a stiroholic and chopoholic and I am neither.



Yesterday Genevieve walked into the kitchen looking like this. Her hair always falls down, it drives me nuts. Earlier in the day, it was in neat pigtails. Now... it's not. She used to have on a navy skirt, but, she explained, she "didn't want to pull up three things" when she went to the bathroom, so she took off the skirt and only wore her panties and the shorts she is required to wear under skirts. I have no idea what's up with the snow boots.

Annoying genetics

Reason #426 that I know Imogen is Jeremy's daughter: She sits next to him on the couch watching him play his new Nintendo DS and gives him game tips.

The Mystery of the Mysterious Soap

Jeremy came to me recently, holding a bar of soap he had fished out of the trash can. (does he search the trash cans for things I've wrongfully thrown away? Honestly?) "Why is this is the trash?" he asked.

"It's a funny color," I said. "Something's obviously wrong with it." I wasn't looking at him, but I felt his eyes roll.

"It's SOAP!" he said. "You scrub it off and it's like it's a whole new bar of soap!"

"Fine," I said disinterestedly. I really wasn't all that passionate about the matter. We don't go through bars of soap very quickly, because I keep liquid body wash around. However, we have plenty of it in the cupboard, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that I like the idea of bar soap and tend to make purchasing decisions accordingly.

The next time I saw the oddly colored bar of soap, it was in the soap dish with the newer and normally colored (aka, simply better) bar of soap. And that was the last I saw of it. A few nights later I was waiting in bed for Jeremy to come to bed and he walked into our room from the bathroom and said, "You threw that bar of soap away again!"

This seemed rather unfair. His case was purely circumstantial, at best. "I did not!" I denied. "Then where is it?" he said, as if I'm some kind of Keeper of the Soap in this house.

"How should I know?" I said, still laying in bed.

"You really didn't throw it away?" he said. I could tell he was listening carefully. Our room was dark and he couldn't see my face. I'm a terrible liar and Jeremy always knows when I'm lying, but mostly by facial expressions.

"No, I didn't throw your soap away," I said firmly.

"How strange..." he said, finally believing me. He went back to the bathroom and stayed for a while.

When he came back I asked, "Been looking for the soap?"

"Yeah."

"Did you find it?"

"No."

Very mysterious. And no, I didn't do anything with the weird bar of soap. But if you ask me, we're probably better off without it. :)

Genevieve can read...

Genevieve reads short vowel one syllable words. Words like jump, silk, send. Without difficulty. This isn't really an amazing concept, except that no one has bothered to teach her to read. Just like no one really taught her to write.

She does startle me sometimes. Today we were watching the plumbing guy dig in our back yard with his back hoe though her bedroom window. There were chunks of concrete from him cutting and busting up part of our back patio. There was a muddy trench with tree roots and pipes that would be replaced. It's was noisy and messy and ugly and Genevieve pointed and said, "Look! A butterfly!"

A Question of Race

The other day Imogen was talking about Indians (by which she means Native Americans) and at the end of whatever monologue she had going on she stated that she would like to be an Indian when she grows up. I looked at my exceedingly white child, with her tiny freckles appearing across her cheeks after a summer at the pools (slathered in sun screen) and proceeded to crush her ambitions with a basic explanation of how one does not become an Indian, one is born an Indian, if your parents and grandparents are Indians, and so on. I pointed out several other races and talked about how they are from different parts of the world and even took a stab at explaining the difference between one's ethnicity and one's nationality.

She absorbed precious little of this, I'm sure, distracted that her chances of riding horses, shooting bows and arrows and wearing moccasins are pretty much nil. To get a clearer picture of this tragedy she asked me "What do Indians do?"

"Um... the same things the rest of us do... They live in houses, watch TV, wear blue jeans and drive in cars," I said, trying to paint a picture of modern American life. She was sorely disappointed.

She was taught some early American history in school last year. Obviously, comprehending long periods of time (from then until now) isn't Imogen's specialty (like, I suspect, most six year olds). I'm surprised she doesn't expect us to wear corsets, ride around in horse drawn buggies and milk the cow at sunrise.

Unlike Imogen, I'm not heartbroken that we've moved on. I like electricity and running water, cell phones and stores that sell everything and are open 24 hours a day. Modern life is stressful? Bring it on, it's got to be better than only bathing once a month and spending your life over a hot stove because no one's bothered to invent a microwave yet.

Bath Time

Speechless

Sometimes your children do things, and you can immediately respond with the appropriate consequences that they should face. You dispense justice easily, you feel competent and capable. But then, sometimes your children do something that leaves you so confused that you completely fail to act. They get away with heinous sins simply because they render you speechless.

Example? Glad you asked.

Today Imogen comes to me and complains, "I have to wash my clothes again!"

I'm barely interested. I manage a bored, "Why?"

"Genevieve peed on them," she said indignantly.

That got my attention. "She did? She sat in the basket and just PEED in them?" I asked? Imogen had a basket of clean clothes in her bedroom.

"No," Imogen said. "She peed on the ones in the dryer."

That's right folks. Genevieve crawled INTO THE DRYER to urinate on her sister's clean laundry. I called her over to confirm this very strange allegation, which she did willingly enough. I didn't even do anything about it. I told her not to ever climb into the dryer again, and I told her to change her clothes, but otherwise I just walked away, bemused.

Puppet show

Today the girls put on puppet shows for me with their stuffed animals. Imogen went first. She did several very short little skits involving two stuffed animals each, set to a song that was made up on the spot. For example: "Here is a little lamb and he was sad and lonely and the puppy came and played with him and they played all day long and danced. Then the puppy had to go home, but he came back every day to play. The end." Genevieve and I clapped dutifully.

Genevieve's puppet shows were shorter versions of Imogen's with less friendliness and more animals eating each other.

Then Imogen took the stage again, this time to give speeches about each animal holding up a stuffed version of each one. Here they are as best as I can remember. (I came in here as soon as it was over so I could write as much of it down as possible.)

So, animals according to Imogen:

Lions are extremely hungry all the time. They eat meat. They are very scary and mean.

Bears are also extremely hungry. I don't know what they eat but they are also scary. I saw a black one at the zoo.

Monkeys eat only bananas all the time. They climb up in trees.

Bunnies are scared of everything. They run away from dogs and cats and humans. You can have one as a pet only if it's not really extremely scared all the time.

Elephants are really loud. They make all kinds of noise. Well, not really lots of noise. They have this long trunk to get their food and put it in their mouth.

Dogs are good pets. Cows are not good pets so we kill them and eat them. But that's not what this is about. We don't eat dogs. If the dog is a big dog, he could be a hunting dog like in Fox and the Hound. Copper was a little puppy and then he went away and he grew up into a full grown trained huntin' dog. But this dog *holds up stuffed dog* isn't a hunting dog. It's just a regular dog.

Rotten but honest about it

Today Genevieve was curled up on my lap and Imogen came over and attempted to kiss her cheek. Genevieve turned away, blocking her face with her arm. Imogen simply walked away with a hurt expression. I whispered to Genevieve that perhaps she could be kinder to her sister, who was, after all, only being sweet to her.

Not being a fast learner, Imogen tried again a few minutes later, only to be pushed away by Genevieve again. I was annoyed, and dispatched Genevieve from my lap, saying "Fine. I will give Imogen a hug then."

Genevieve plopped down on the floor and proceeded to cry about this unwelcome turn of events.

"What is wrong?"

"You hurt my feelings," she cried.

"What about Imogen's feelings?" I asked. "Don't you care about those?" Wrong question.

"No," she said tearfully.

Pepto quiche

Imogen had another stomach ache a few days ago, conveniently coinciding with another room cleaning session. Finally, I offered her some pepto bismol, which she accept. I measured out tablespoon and fed it to her, with much delight at the horrible faces she made. Shuddering, she said, "That is the worst stuff I have ever tasted. Except quiche." My jaw dropped.

Offended that my quiche could possibly be compared to pepto bismol, I asked, "What's wrong with quiche?!"

"I don't like it," she said dismissively.

"Well, guess what's for dinner?" I said. "Quiche!" I had planned this, but not told anyone. It was ironic, to say the least.

Imogen glared at me. "How long have you been planning this?" she said.

She ended up loving it.

Pink?

Imogen and I were browsing the L.L. Bean website today, where I'm thinking of getting their backpacks. I've finally settled on which backpack I like best, and I called them over to pick which color they wanted. Imogen agonized over which one and changed her mind multiple times before settling on the lavender backpack with the small embroidered flamingo. Genevieve walked up, studied the choices for about three quarters of a second and said, "The pink one with the butterfly," and walked away.

Imogen stuck around as I wandered around the site aimlessly (her school orders their uniforms from L.L. Bean and I was trying to find them on the site). I clicked on a random dress. Imogen said, "Oh, Genevieve would like that. It's pink and has flowers." From across the room Genevieve shrieked "Pink?? I love it!!"

Nail Biting

Yes, perhaps it shouldn't surprise that Imogen is a nail biter. After all, she's such an easy, relaxed, passive sort of person. Never gets riled up about anything minor. *cough*table settings*cough*

So yeah, her hands are just hideous too. The nails are short and jagged and she drags and scrapes her teeth on her nail beds (past her cuticles) so they are constantly splitting. She has hangnails all over the place, they're all scabby, not to mention painful. She's always asking for bandaids to shield her poor fingers from herself. I need to get something perfectly nasty to put on them in an effort to help her quit. She says she tries to, but I know how absent minded habits like that be. I figure if she really wants to, maybe the nasty tasting stuff will help. If she doesn't, I know Imogen. She'll lick it off for a while then figure out that she can wash it off.

But today, this all took a rather unpleasant twist. She has some minor but painful toe injury from stubbing her toe on something. As I was examining the little wound, I noticed something odd. A familiar jaggedness to her toenails.

"Do you bite your toenails?" I asked, figuring that she just plays hard and her toenails break off often. She didn't answer but just stared at me with suddenly wide eyes. I couldn't believe it. "Seriously??" I asked, "You honestly bite your toenails? Really?"

She finally said very quietly, "Yes."

I was aghast, "Seriously??" I stared at them. It was quite obvious now. They looked very much like her fingernails. I searched my memory, trying to think of when I last clipped them. "Seriously?" I said again, still trying to wrap my brain around this one. "When??" I asked, realizing I had never seen this particular activity.

"Not as often as my fingernails," she said.

Oh, no kidding. That's a huge comfort. I'm still picturing her somewhere hunched over with her foot grasped tightly in both hands and held at her mouth as she gnaws away. I tried to deliver a suitable lecture about the germs that are under both fingernails and *shudder* toenails.

"Well, I didn't know," she said defensively.

I'm sitting here wondering if somehow I caused this. Did I neglect her nails, driving her to chew them off in desperation? Did she ask me at some point to cut them and I forgot to? Do we perhaps not own enough pairs of nail clippers?

She's started chewing on her hair recently. That's all I need.

Losses

Imogen has been a proud owner of a very friendly hamster for a very short period of time. Now I am a not-so-proud owner of a hamster.

I recently walked into Imogen's room to find Melly's cage open and Imogen nowhere in sight. I was shocked, and lectured her on the safety of her pet and the possible consequences of her escape.

Only a couple days later, Genevieve walked in holding Melly. She had found her in the corner of the bathroom, cornered by the dog. I'm not even sure how she got from the desk where the cage was sitting to the floor without hurting herself. Genevieve informed Imogen who nonchalantly waved a hand and told Genevieve to put Melly back in her cage.

I was very disturbed. If, at this point, Imogen had freaked out, been worried about Melly, grateful to Genevieve, or anything normal at all, I would have figured she learned a lesson that wasn't as costly as it could have been. As it was, her dismissive attitude toward the whole event bothered me.

I took the hamster away, but not for keeps. She got yet another lecture, this one on responsibilities in general and how she could earn Melly back by showing me that she could take care of the things she's supposed to take care of. These are relatively simple. She's supposed to keep her room clean, do her laundry (with a little help from me in pouring the detergent) and do her piano practices.

Exhausted at fighting with Imogen to practice her piano and worried we were killing her love of music rather than nurturing it, Jeremy and I decided to cancel her lessons. She begged us not to, however, so we told her she had one week to prove that she wanted lessons, by voluntarily doing her practices. We would remind her but not fight with her about it. I'm not going to drag a kid to a lesson for which she has barely studied. It's a waste of the teacher's time, my time, and my money.

After most of the week had passed without any practice, we finally canceled. Jeremy and I were very sad but Imogen sobbed. I have no idea why. We hope that she will want to take them again in the future. The day after we canceled her lessons, we found Melly's food scattered through Imogen's room, everywhere. Piled up in the corners of her desk drawers, spread between her sheets, sprinkled across the floor. Two pounds of hamster feed never went so far.

So I took Melly away to be mine. I don't want a hamster. I would have bought myself a hamster if I had wanted one. She's cute and fuzzy and fulfills the role of a hamster quite well, but that's hardly the point. I don't even know what to do with her.

Very many very's

Imogen: "It's a very very very very very very very... *takes breath* very very very-"
Me: "STOP SAYING VERY!!!"
Imogen: "Well, I didn't want just one very."
Me: "Well, then use a word that means 'veryveryveryveryvery' like 'extremely'."
Imogen: "Well... it's a lot of years."
Me: "Till what?"
*silence* At this point, if there had been a brick wall in my van, I would have happy banged my head on it. Finally Imogen remembers: "Till Zeus dies."

To the moon

Conversation in the van the other day:

Imogen: Mommy, some night can we go to the moon?
Me: What?
Imogen: Can we go to the moon?
Me: (sure that I've misheard) To the moon?
Imogen: Yes.
*insert short explanation about astronauts and rocket ships*

Swimming..

How to make a child cry

There are plenty of ways to make a child cry. Easy ways like taking their toys away when they won't pick them up or grounding them from candy when they eat all of their Easter candy in one afternoon. You can try for something challenging like a sad story, but really, you'll have more success just telling them to clean their room before they can watch a movie.

Or, you can go with the tried and true, like saying "na na na-na na". It's old fashioned, almost quaint, and like many things that have stood the test of time, it works.

And frankly, I'm sick of it. I hear from Genevieve at minimum, two or three times a day. "Imogen said 'na na na-na na' to me!" As if I care. Even a little. I held my fingers about a millimeter apart and said "I don't even care this much." I was rewarded with the Glare of Death, which would be fine if the message would sink in, but no, the battle rages on.

So I've taken matters into my own hands. So you happen to be at my house any time soon and hear me taunting my children with a loud "Na na na-na na!" do not be alarmed. It's my new strategy. I'm hoping to overuse this expression (for lack of a better word) until it ceases to have any meaning whatsoever. Until then, I'll have children spontaneously bursting into tears and complaining that I've hurt their feelings.

The difference between pets and siblings

I found this on Imogen's door. I took a picture before telling Imogen it wasn't very nice and taking it off and throwing it away. Theoretically, if Imogen had more than one sibling, the sign would simply say "Keep out". But then, this is Imogen we're talking about. It might say "Keep out Geneive and Imaginary Sibling One and Imaginary Sibling Two (etc.)"


This is Imogen with Melly, who Jeremy calls Smelly. Dads do things like ruin the names of your pets and/or stuffed animals. Yeah, I still don't forgive mine for the Fuzzy Wuzzy thing.

Shades of green beans

I find this very disturbing.

Kindergarten Graduation

Kind of belated, but oh well. Here's a picture of the girls at Imogen's graduation.

Tall

Look how tall they've gotten. I took a picture next to a doorknob so it would be fairly easy to see how tall they are. Of course, I told Genevieve to not block the doorknob and this is the picture that I got. Imogen is only six! She just shot up this past year. I bought a uniform at the beginning of her kindergarten year that was huge on her. She just swam in it. So I put it away, only to pull it out for her spring semester. I just ordered a pile of uniforms I'm hoping will last us a good while, but we'll see.

Genevieve, asleep

When Genevieve was first born, she had her days and nights mixed up. She slept during the day and screamed all night. Of course, Imogen was 18 months old, so I couldn't sleep during the day so I tried everything I could to get her to stay awake during the day. With most babies, when you blow in their faces, they gasp for breath, thinking they are suffocating. Not Genevieve. I jiggling her around, laid her on the hard floor hoping she'd be uncomfortable, I played loud music or movies. I gave her baths thinking that'd get her good and awake. She screamed during the bath and fell back to sleep after they were done.

Genevieve is, and has always been, very very stubborn when it comes to her sleep. These days if she falls asleep, it takes a long time and very much effort to get her awake, and even when you do, you're unlikely to keep her awake. If you do succeed in waking her, she will make you regret it by being such a deplorably unpleasant person that it's really just best to let her sleep when she wants to. You just don't mess with Genevieve's sleep.

Trip to the zoo

We went to the zoo recently with some friends from Imogen's school. The girls had tons of fun and have already asked to go back.


At the zoo they have these boxes where you can put in your "zoo key" and they will sing an informative song about the animals nearby.


The day we went to the zoo was the day after Genevieve got her latest stitch. You can see it just by her left eye. The bruising under her eye only got worse. You can see some slight bruising under her right eye from unrelated accidents (yes, plural) that also got worse so that for several days she was walking around with two black eyes. I'm going to get reported for child abuse one of these days, I just know it. I got so sick of her hurting herself a few days ago that I gave her a notebook and a pencil and made her sit in a chair and not leave it for a while. I'm shocked she didn't find a way to accidentally stab herself with the pencil.


Imogen on the train. She's got such a fabulous smile when she's not trying so hard to smile.

An appreciation for the unique

I think every house with children has that special cup. There's only one of it. But every child in the household argues over whose turn it is to drink out of it. This frustrates everyone. The children because milk doesn't taste quite the same out of lesser cups, and parents because they are wondering why they didn't have just one kid and if they can get away with throwing The Cup away if they do so in the middle of the night.

In my house, cups aren't such a big deal because The Cup was given to Genevieve at her day care and Imogen can not deny that it actually belongs to her sister. Sometimes Genevieve benevolently lets Imogen borrow it, but Imogen doesn't get too worked up about it. However, there was this one incident where Zach came over and unthinkingly used it. He walked out of the kitchen sipping water from it without a care in the world and Genevieve saw him and burst into tears. He stared at her dumbfounded. "Oh..." I said, "You aren't supposed to use that cup."

Spoons, however... Well, there's another story. Everyone wants the Circle Spoon (otherwise known as a sugar spoon). There have been lasting arguments about the Circle Spoon. When we acquired another sugar spoon I thought our problems would be over, but the new sugar spoon was not as circular as the Circle Spoon, so what I thought was a treaty was only a short cease fire. Eventually, I told them that I'm sick of the argument and that they had to take turns with the spoon and they had to keep track of whose turn it was to eat with it. And keep track they do. Having relegated this task to my children, I care not which spoon I grab, but woe to me if I accidentally give the Circle Spoon to the wrong person.

Then, of course, there is the Yellow Plate. There was only one, the rest of the plates being lesser shades of pink and blue. Even during the hight of Genevieve's pink obsession, the Yellow Plate was preferable. However, somehow, we found another yellow plate. Now there are two, and suddenly, while yellow plates are still fairly special, they don't have the same status they did when there was only one.

All of this would be normal enough child-weirdness, without the chipped spots thing. My stoneware, after seven years of marriage, has become chipped in places. While I consider this not such a great thing, my children argue over who gets dishes with the most chipped spots. I pull two bowls down from the shelf for breakfast and they are examined. One is not chipped, the other has two small chips. Discussion ensues. Voices are raises, threats are made, tears are produced in copious amounts. People are sent to the corner to get over it.

Jeremy...

As he was untangling computer cords he said to me "How can you live like this?"

I stared at him, confused. "I just don't think my quality of life is affected by computer cords."



I was making pasta from a box. "Oh no! I did it wrong," I said, rereading the instructions.

"How wrong?" Jeremy asked, immediately concerned. Deviating from The Directions concerns him greatly.

"It'll be ok," I reassured him. "I've done it wrong like this before."



Today he asked me to buy him something. I bought it, came home, and lost it. He came home and asked for it.

"Yes, I bought it. It's in a brown paper bag about this big, somewhere in the house," I said. He walked around the house aimlessly looking for it. I finally took pity on him and helped him look.

It's a wonder I haven't driven him nuts by now.

Problem solving

Parenting is like... wrestling a grizzly on the Fourth of July. *

Basically, you're always trying to solve all these problems. And as soon as something works, something else crops up. And maybe the new problem is one you've solved before. But the solution that you had before isn't working this time for some strange reason. So you have to think of a new one.

I sent the girls to go clean their rooms. They wined, they moaned, they complained. I suggested that I could clean the rooms myself. They begged me not to (bad things happen when I do their chores for them). They went to their rooms and proceeded to not clean their rooms. They ended up back in the kitchen telling me various stories.

I'm the type of parent who teases my children and often says things that I don't mean. One child will ask for something (say, a piece of candy) and I say yes. The next one asks and I say no, just to get a reaction. Obviously, I give them both the candy in the end.

So as my non cleaning children are hanging out in the kitchen not cleaning I randomly said "Imogen, go clean Genevieve's room." I expected outrage, arguing, protest. She laughed. I said "Genevieve, go clean Imogen's room." They looked at each other. Then ran to the bedrooms and proceeded to happily clean each other's rooms.

I was baffled. Confused. Bewildered. Jeremy arrived home. They told him that I had told them to clean each other's rooms. He looked at me, confused. "Why?" he asked. "I was joking," I whispered.

Both rooms were cleaned in record time. I'm not sure why, or how. I doubt this will work again. But it worked this time.

*I couldn't think of an appropriate metaphor so I made one up.

Imogen's hamster

Yes, Imogen got a hamster today. During Genevieve's dance class last week we walked around the corner to a pet shop, just to kill time. Imogen thought everything there, from the doves to the goldfish was the coolest thing she had ever seen. She has a thing for animals. I look at goldfish and I see a fish tank that will need regular cleaning (and fishtanks are such a pain to clean). I look at doves and see birds which will poop a lot, chew on things, are probably noisy and will doubtlessly hate me. Because I hate them.

Nonetheless, Imogen begged me for a guinea pig (and a parrot, but I digress). She had some money left over from her birthday and she wanted to buy one. She had a cage left over from her other guinea pig which bit the dust shortly after we bought her. Kiba was her name, and she was sickly when we got her though we didn't really realize it until it got worse.

I mentioned to Jeremy that Imogen wanted another guinea pig. He groaned. "Kiba hated us and she DIED! What's the point of that? We have Zeus. Wasn't that the point of getting Zeus?" Now, I remember before we got Zeus several discussions about the type of dog we wanted and what we wanted in a dog but I don't recall ever either of us saying "Hey, if we get a chihuahua, we won't ever have to get any other pets!" So I let Jeremy stew about the whole guinea pig for a while (he needs to get used to some ideas) but one thing he said was "Why not a hamster?" Why not, indeed? They're smaller, cheaper (ie, easier to replace when they croak). They eat less, poop less. Their toys are even cheaper because they're smaller.

But Imogen wanted a guinea pig. So we went to the pet store with the idea of buying one. However, when we got there, there was only one in stock and the stupid thing was $28! Call me cheap but seems like a lot for a glorified rat. Hamsters however, were $9. So I convinced Imogen to look at the hamsters. She peered into one of the cages. Two fat, healthy looking hamsters with thick fuzzy fur were sleeping in one corner of the cage. One thinner straggly looking hamster was shivering in the other corner of the cage.

"I want that one," Imogen said, pointing at the littler one. I pictured her 15 years from now writing a book about how all of her pets died when she was a little kid and how her parents failed to shield her from the pain.

"What about these ones?" I said. We agreed on one of the fat ones. Imogen named her Melly. (I don't think I could have handled another Lucy or Susan- *everything* around here gets named Lucy or Susan ever since Jeremy read them The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.) We had to buy her a cage, ball, food, etc.

Melly chewed the inside of her little box in a valiant escape attempt as I frantically assembled the cage while we waited for Genevieve's dance class to end. We put her inside the cage and she began climbing all over it and exploring. Already she has been more outgoing, friendly, curious and active that Kiba was. Hopefully she lasts longer too.

Theology, by Imogen

"God is a miracle! He was there before the whole earth was made. Like, whoa, that's cool." -Imogen

The Tooth Fairy, unmasked

We don't do Santa, because I think it's silly. Why do I want some idiot in a red suit to take credit for gifts that I bought during the shopping season from hell, brought home, wrapped with no help from a Grinchy husband, and put under the tree late at night on Christmas Eve? No thanks.

But when Imogen's teeth started falling out, I figured, there's a fairy tale I can get into. Sure, she's taking credit for giving your kids money, but it's only a couple dollars. It's mysterious as well, all the unanswered questions.

Unfortunately, Imogen doesn't get along well with unanswered questions. So she asked them all. Who was the tooth fairy? What did she look like? How tall was she? How did she get in the room? What did she do with the teeth? Where did she get all the money? What did she do when she had to visit lots of kids in the same night? I finally had to say "How should I know?? I haven't met her!"

Imogen is very literal. To Genevieve, I think, these things didn't matter, because somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew. But to Imogen, the tooth fairy was a real person. She started keeping up a correspondence with her. I was constantly having to scribble replies from the tooth fairy and slip them under her pillow, thanking Imogen for various notes and pictures and drawings.

But she has long been suspicious. Tonight, the truth came out.

"Mommy, I think you're the tooth fairy," she said.
"Oh you do?" I said. My usual strategy is to neither confirm nor deny.
"Yup! Guess how I know," she said.
"How?"
"The hearts," she said, referring to the hearts the tooth fairy drew on notes and envelopes.
I gasped. "The tooth fairy and me make our hearts the same?"
"Nooo... You are the tooth fairy! You and daddy," she said. "Also, your handwriting is the same."
I reflected that maybe I should have made at least the slightest effort to mask my handwriting. I had decided it was unnecessary, given the ages of my children, but I underestimate Imogen's observational skills. I tried for surprise again.
"The tooth fairy writes just like me too!" I said.
"Nope! We figured it out," she said, giving Genevieve some of the credit. "You're the tooth fairy!"

Does this mean I don't have to pay her for her teeth any more?

The average voter...

Actually, she'd probably do better than the average voter.

This is an old picture, obviously. But hey. The dumb smile is just too perfect with the sticker on the forehead.

Genevieve's philosophy of makeup

Less is definitely NOT more. More is the only thing that is more.

Imogen's birthday

Here's a shot of her blowing out the candles. I'm not going to bother with the gift opening. Really, gift opening gifts all look the same anyway, unless one is getting something really unusual. (Happy birthday, here's your very own toilet seat!)

So as far as birthday pictures of children go, you want to see the kid (who changes rapidly) and the cake (which is different each time and NOT made by the kid's mother who has sworn off cake making for all time- for more information, see pictures of Imogen's first birthday.)

Just some random pictures...

The top one is of Imogen's latest tooth loss, a loss from which she has still not recovered. (Physically, I mean. That tooth refuses to grow back.)

Then, Genevieve being pouty. Needs no explanation.

Then, Imogen's new haircut, which is now not as new as it was in these pictures. It's actually quite cute because she's got the natural waves in her hair which make it a flattering look.

Yeah, so I've been busy...

This is a picture of my desk taken on... Friday I think? Ironically, I look around and I've cleaned up my desk and other stuff seems to have taken that stuff's place. Hm...

We have this backwards somehow...

So, Imogen wakes up with a stomach ache this morning. Stomach aches are so vague. There's not a lot you can do for them, their causes are mysterious and they're hard to verify. Is it diarrhea or apendi-whatever? Is it a stomach flu or a cleverly chosen, unprovable, difficult to solve symptom of simply wishing to stay home? A fever, I can handle. The kid is hot, or she is not. Easy. We have the magic number (98.6 or 96.8, I can never remember...) and we have the magic thermometer that tells us (provided it has not again been misplaced). And we have Tylenol to fix it. (I have a hard time inflicting pepto bismol on a person I like. Some cures are worse than the disease.)

So I told Imogen she could stay home from school. I had one final and it wasn't till tonight, so it was no inconvenience to me. However, she came to me 20 minutes later (20 minutes past when she should have been getting dressed according to my oft-ignored morning schedule that only I care about) and announced that her stomach felt much better and she would be going to school. She was in her uniform, and I do use the word "in" loosely in this context. Her shirt untucked and unbuttoned, socks of drastically differing lengths and hair still messy. Still, this was all fixable within the allotted time, though I had to tell Genevieve to get dressed. She seemed to think a day at home was as good a reason as any to spend it nude.

Imogen school called me at around 2:45, not long before I would have left to pick her up anyway. Her stomach hurt, they said, and I needed to come get her. When I arrived they explained that she had seemed kind of down all day long but refused to complain and finally the teacher noticed her clutching her stomach and flinching.

So here I have a child who, instead of pretending to be ill to stay home from school, when sick, will pretend to be well so she can go to school.

That makes me happy.

Sorry for lack of posts...

My semester is winding down and that means everything is due and I'm pretty busy. I'm looking forward to summer.

The girls are partially to blame, by refusing to say or do anything of remarkable cuteness. Children are not so fascinating that I'm willing to type out their breakfast menus or petty spats with each other. They must do their part by being interesting. It's the least they can do for the attention lavished upon them.

Imogen has been going to school quite ordinarily without being either deplorably bad or angelically good. She has nothing more exciting than a spelling bee and History Day coming up. For history day she will dress as a Native American from Montana and recite a paragraph about the state. Montana is a dull state but all the interesting ones were taken. There is a shortage of interesting states and they don't go very far in a class of 14.

Genevieve has also been neither atrocious nor saintly. Perhaps I should be grateful. I'm very suspicious of saintly behavior, viewing it as either a cover up for what is really happening or a short stage to be followed by a disproportionately long period of the aforementioned atrociousness.

Yesterday we went to Incredible Pizza. Think Chuck E Cheese's, but with better games. The girls had a great time, and as they were crawling through those plastic tubes from ball pits to slides, I collapsed on a bench to look around me. I shouted a compliment to the woman sitting next to me regarding the prettiness of the baby on her lap and I could not help but think that this place was everything that is wrong with parenting. It's brightly colored and plastic (in other words, unattractive). It's loud with shouting, music, and a discordant symphony of beeps from the various rides and games. It was so overstimulating that Imogen was wired for the rest of the day and Genevieve came home and fell asleep before dinner.

And they loved every moment of it. Oh well.

Dreams

Imogen asked me several nights ago, "Do grown ups have dreams?" I laughed and said, "Of course." Now, every night, she tells me to have sweet dreams.

One mustn't be inaccurate in our pleasantries.

Chess

Some of my fondest memories of childhood include playing chess with my father. It was time I spent with just him. My mother and I spent time shopping, trading jokes and laughter. My father and I shared books and chess. I haven't played in years and I'm honestly no good at it. But today we bought a chessboard and sat down with the girls to teach them.

Imogen's attention span toward it (and I suspect, her aptitude) was greater than Genevieve's. First we taught the names of the pieces and then we set up the board. While Imogen concentrated on this, Genevieve made the king and queen kiss. The differences between my daughters are very apparent.

We taught them how the pieces moved and set up very simple situations to teach capturing. Imogen was thrilled at such revelations like when a knight is on a white square, all the squares he is covering are black and when a bishop starts on a certain color, he will only ever touch that color square. She was excited by every capture. She traded her queen for a knight and congratulated herself. Jeremy played intentionally badly so she could find ways out of as many checking situations as possible and that is mostly what her game consisted of. No plan was formulated, no attack was mounted. But who cares. She had fun and it was her first game. And she gets to spend time with her daddy, who is much better at chess than me, and will probably play many more games with her than I will.

Not kid pictures

But they are cool pictures.

more black and whites

And another

another

pictures

Imogen's first get-rich-quick scheme

I have a little entrepreneur on my hands. Either that or a scam artist. At any rate, the kid has been losing teeth. And making money at it. After that third tooth came out, well, let's just say that if she were a cartoon character, there would have been a lightbulb over her head and a wicked grin on her face.

She found a little white rock, roughly the same size and shape as a little tooth. You know where this is going. She put it in an envelope and labeled it herself "Imogens fourth tooth" and stuck it under her pillow. Genevieve loved the plan. Honestly, she was salivating for how brilliant she thought it was. Genius, pure genius! No way the tooth fairy would see through this one.

Unfortunately, the tooth fairy did see through it. She left a note for the young businesswoman of the house that she can not be fooled and she only pays for teeth, not rocks.

Sorry for the lack of updates lately. Imogen got a haircut last week (because she started it herself) and I'll be putting a picture of that up soon.

Genevieve's stitches

Looks gruesome, hm?

Today the doctor was taking them out and she asked "Do you want to save them?" I was revolted. "People DO that??" I asked. "Yes, for baby books and stuff. You know, first stitches and all," she said.

And I thought it was a little morbid to take pictures of them. The last thing I need is a bunch of scabby dried up bits of black string to commemorate this event. The very thought makes me twitch.

Will work for ice cream...

The girls were supposed to pick up the living room. We piled everything in a pile in the middle of the floor, mostly laundry and toys, but school papers end up there as well. But that's a boring thing to do with one's weekend, and they found themselves easily distracted. After numerous reminders and warnings, I finally got tired of it. I called them to me in the next room and said "I want that pile cleaned up. Whoever cleans up most will get ice cream." Jaws dropped and they ran out of the room to clean up.

Jeremy looked at me incredulously. "Are you going to watch them?" he asked. "No," I said.

About five minutes later they came rushing back, assuring me that they each picked up the most. I made a production of walking into the living room to somehow determine who had done the most. Imogen started picking up the coloring book mess. "Look!" she said loudly, "I'm picking up things that are NOT in the pile!" Genevieve scrambled to help. After a short deliberation and analysis, I concluded that they both picked up the same amount of stuff and thus would both get ice cream.

Which was the point from the start. But if you promise that they'll both get ice cream when they are finished with the chore, then what's the motivation to do it quickly? And if you put a time limit on that, then they must compete with a clock, which is insubstantial and rather abstract to a child. But seeing your sister pick up with your own eyes, knowing that she might be the one to get the ice cream? That's motivation.

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In movies, a child's drawing offer exciting and plot-relevant insight into the child's point of view. Children draw relatives dying three days before that character dies a gruesome on-screen death. They draw memories of past lives, or ghosts that only they can see.

But in the mundane real world, children's drawings tend to be a little more generic. It's true that each child has their own style. Imogen's people have disturbingly short legs and Genevieve's have no body at all, but their limbs simply grow out of their heads. "Look mommy, I drew you as a mutant!" But mostly they are just drawings.

However, sometimes you get a drawing that does actually offer insight into your child's mind, and while it may not be a supernatural indication that your child is ready for therapy, it can be interesting nonetheless.

See the drawing above. Imogen brought this home from school. This is her family, from right to left, Genevieve, Imogen, myself, and Jeremy. Hair is a defining feature here, classifying each family member into the tiny group in which they belong. We are grouped as a family and then sub grouped into people who are similar.

I've always hated labeling people. In high school you have all these labels. Skater, goth, punk, emo, jock, alpha, etc. People like Imogen invented those labels, I'm convinced of it, out of a need to categorize.

This week so far...

Sunday:

Genevieve walked into the kitchen after we told her to brush her hair with her hair neatly brushed and wet as usual, and smelling strange; not as usual. The smell was familiar... I tried to ask what it was and her big eyes got bigger and she said nothing. This is a bad sign. I knew for sure that it was a bathroom product of some sort. So I went to the bathroom to investigate. I found my facial toner on the counter, cap off and a good two inches emptier than usual. I tried to be angry but I was laughing too hard.

Monday:

I'm sitting outside of my Art History class waiting for it to start when my cell phone rings. It's Genevieve's day care. The director says she's fallen and hit her face and she needs stitches. She ended up with six stitches next to her eye (I'll post a picture later). That was about the least fun I've had in a while.

Tuesday:

I get a phone call from Imogen's school saying to come pick her up a little early because she had just vomited on her desk. I walked into the office to see her sitting on the bench holding a small trash can on her lap.

Wenesday, 4:45 pm:

Still waiting for today's little dose of disaster.

School, etc

Imogen commented that in chapel at school she gets to sit next to the teacher a lot. She paused to consider this, then commented "It's probably becauase I'm so good all the time." Jeremy and I just looked at each other and laughed.

I'm SURE that's the reason the teacher has my child sit next to her. My child who has gotten in trouble all last week for humming during lectures. My child who's solution for other people talking when she wants to talk is to simply talk louder (and start over so that they catch everything you want to say). My very squirmy child who sometimes forgets not to play with her friends.

However, her teacher also assures me that she's doing very very well in school. She reads quickly without sounding out most of the words, only the longer ones. I've barely lifted a finger to make her practice reading, beyond buying plenty of books for her to practice on. I'll get up in the morning and she'll be in bed with the light on reading instead of getting ready for school.

As for Genevieve, she makes the oddest off the wall observations. We were driving around the other day and out of the blue she says "Babies are smaller than trash cans, that are bigger than the trash can that is in my room." ??? I mean, what do you even SAY to that??

You can teach a kid anything

I have this huge art book laying around for an art history class and I flipped to a couple paintings thinking I could teach the girls some of them. They learned the Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa and the Van Gogh painted Starry Night. I taught them this months ago. Yesterday we were cleaning up the living room and Genevieve came across some junk mail that we had let them play with. It was a credit card offer and it had a picture of several different credit cards on it with the various customizations you could get.

"Starry night!" she said. We all stopped working. She was pointing to one of the tiny credit cards. Jeremy and I bent over to look. Indeed, the design on the credit card was a piece of Starry Night.

They also sort of know the names of the president, vice president, secretary of state and speaker of the house. Meaning, they often need hints, but then, we've only been working on that for a few days. Imogen didn't want to learn the secretary of state's name because she's not in the line of succession (as far as her mother knows anyway). :)

Bambi is lame

I just spent a gift card from my mother for Christmas and one of the things I got was the movie Bambie for the girls.

I'd forgotten how lame it was. Or actually, I didn't realize just how lame it is. Don't get me wrong, the girls love it. Imogen was beside herself with excitement when it arrived. They also got Cars but nooo, they won't watch that one. They've been giggling at this girlie-named-deer's antics the whole movie.

There's these long musical numbers. And they aren't Lion King, Little Mermaid music numbers that you can actually sing to. Bambi's mother is annoying. I think she's drugged. She speaks in this stupid monotone saying these wise-sounding-but-not lines. "Man... is in the forrest..." and "Winter has come." Thank you Lady Obvious. Fortunately, dialogue in general is rare this movie.

Then there's the scene where she dies. The farmer shoots, misses. She runs away... He continues to shoot and miss, finally, he manages to chase her down and land a shot. Now, deer in the forrest are pretty fast, so I'm not sure how this was accomplished. You never see the hunter, and I've concluded that he managed to chase her down in his flying spacecraft.

Hey, I know some people are into this movie. I remember as a child I wasn't too into it as well, and I attempt not to impose too much of my taste on my kids unless they like something so awful I worry about it permanently damaging them. :)

Cleaning rooms

The girls each have their own unique way of cleaning their room. Genevieve works quickly without complaint. She picks up any trash and throws it away and crams the rest in her closet. Then she goes about her business playing with her toys and if you ask about her room she confidently assures you that it is spotless and suggests that you go check it. It should be noted that her closet doesn't have a door.

Imogen on the other hand complains extensively. This is obviously the greatest injustice in the history of mankind but when she manages to get over herself and clean her room she meticulously makes her bed. She ignores laundry and toys all over the floor. She spreads blanket after blanket carefully, straightening them again and again. She's been known to unmake and remake her bed.

So today, I was asked to inspect their rooms.

Me: "Did you throw everything into your closet?" (Don't you love how parents ask the dumbest questions?)
Genevieve (completely unconcerned): "I wanted to."

And across the hall, I stare confusedly at the floor and Imogen speaks up. "Just check the bed."

Ice storm

It's hard to exaggerate how much ice there was around here. I went two full weeks without power. We were among the last people to be turned on and they only got around to us on Friday night at 5:30. I won't go into just how miserable that was.

Last night we moved home to find one of our rooms flooded. So Jeremy and I spent the day cleaning that up while the girls spent yet another night at their grandparents' house. My back hurts. Imogen and Genevieve just walked in and are thrilled to be home.

"I missed this house!" Genevieve said. They keep picking up toys and talking about how much they missed each one.

We're glad to be home, but we still have a lot of work to do in the office/utility room. If 2007 doesn't improve very soon I'm going to run away.