"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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
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.
"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.
Friday, September 14, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 24, 2007
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
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. :)
"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. :)
Friday, August 17, 2007
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!"
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 03, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
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!!"
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!!"
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 23, 2007
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.
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."
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."
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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*
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*
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