Still Lost At Sea

Neve yelled from the backseat yesterday,

"Mom! Did you see that?"

Me: "No. What was it?"

Neve: excited, "It was the river blowing skinny!"

I have spent the last day trying to think of what she could have possibly meant, and still nothing. Aside from the fact that Atlanta has not one body of water that she could confuse with a river, how would one blow skinny anyway? This is how people go crazy, you know.

Lost at Sea and A Sinking Ship

I am trapped in a world of verbal mutiny. I have one child who is innately very good at expressing herself. She happens to be the youngest (3 years old), so her use of certain words can get garbled and confused (as kids that age are still learning about proper contexts and whatnot) but while also maintaining a confident adult quality. For example, this afternoon I asked the girls to clean up the sea of Old Maid cards that were scattered across our living room floor. (Which, by the way, they don't know how to play... they only like the 4 Fat Lady cards that make them roll with laughter. Darling children, I know.) When Neve became distracted by sun-lit floating dust in the window, I tried to pull her out of it by reminded her of her job. Her answer?

Neve: "You see, Mom, if I pick up the cards, I'll be destroyed."

Right. What was I thinking?

And another example (all in a day, mind you): As they were taking baths tonight, I heard Fiona say, "Don't tell me to 'shut my mouth', Neve. That's not nice." I walked into the bathroom and looked menacingly at my youngest, not saying a word. Neve begins stammering for an explanation.

Neve: "Ok, well, here's the thing. I said 'shut the door', but Fiona's ears hear 'shut the mouth'." Shrugs, "It's just crazy."

Me: In my lawyer voice, "Did you say 'shut your mouth' to Fiona?"

Neve: As matter-of-fact as one can be, "Yes I did."

And lastly: We sit down to dinner this evening. Fiona reminds us all to bow our heads in prayer. Neve's love for dumplings overrode any restraint to wait those 5 long seconds it takes to pray, and Fiona promotes herself to Prayer Police yelling, "Neve's eating! She's not closing her eyes or bowing her head! Do you even love God, Neve!?"

Neve: With the guts of her dumpling dangling from her mouth she replies coolly, "Sort of."

My inner Jerry Falwell was unleashed.

Me: "'Sort of'!?"

Neve: Now sucking the guts into her mouth, but still cool, "'Sort of' now means 'yes, alot'."

My other grammar anarchist is different, but equally frustrating. She was a late-bloomer, saying her first words when she was well into her second year. I've said it before, but she once shared an uncanny similarity to Koko the Gorilla. Since those days of sign language and word-associations, she's actually grown into a very articulate little girl. She's shocking and funny, even when she's completely serious. So how does she frustrate me then? Back-handed compliments, that's how:

Fiona: "What is this?", holding up a pink Sweet and Low packet that the dude at the coffeeshop slid into the bagel bag.

Me: "It's yucky stuff- chemicals that are kind of like sugar, but can make you even more sick." (I'm just reinacting our conversation, not preaching. I promise.)

Fiona: "If it's yucky, why do people put it in their coffee?"

Me: "That's a good question. I guess it's because some people really want to be skinny. It helps make people skinny, I think?"

Fiona: Without skipping a beat, "You should put it in your coffee!"

{pause}

"...not because your fat... just your butt... I mean, you're beautiful, but if it makes people skinny?... I love you, pretty mama."

And again today: Me, Fiona, Neve, and Mike venture to the feed store to pick up some chicken feed. On our way home, we stopped by my uncle and aunt's house to see their horses and the goats. Fiona is fearless around these huge creatures. Mike is a bit more cautious than her. And Neve and I cower in the back of the barn, as we watch Fiona stand on a bucket to feed them, pet them, and brush their manes with what looked like large shoe shining brushes.

Fiona: As her outstretched arm strokes the side of Marigold's mane, she compliments me with, "Her hair is only a little prettier than your's, Mom."

Awesome.

And this one dates back over a year now, but it's that memorable: Before their increasing awareness of body parts and their need to talk about them all day long, I would join them here and there for a bubble bath.

Fiona: "Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, baby?"

Fiona: "I can't wait to be big enough to make the bath water high, just like you do."

Aw, thanks, kid. That was when I knew family tub-time was o-v-e-r... when I became the tub equivalent to a water park's Ragin' Waves.

While one child is learning how to appropriately use the vast lexicon around her, the other is using it to bail water from her sinking ship. I absorb all of it all day, trying to appreciate how temporary it is. One day, they'll know exactly how to use their words, as they argue their love for their loser older boyfriends in Camaros, or whatever. I better go prepare now.

Confessions of a Housewife

Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been 24 hours since my last confession.

I bought a rug today. A white rug. I bought a white rug, at an un-IKEA price today, knowing that we are not in any position to own rugs (or buy rugs- especially a white one) at this stage of life, what with our nasty children and leaking-anal-glands dog.

I told my oldest daughter today that no man will ever fall in love with her if she can't implement routine wiping habits.

I bought a digital converter box for our television today, without a government coupon.

I used a total of 2 sticks of butter today in my cooking.

I kicked our dog as I was making dinner tonight. (I swear it wasn't hard though.)

I let Neve wear the same dress she wore yesterday to bed last night, and then let her wear it all day today as well.

I swept up three pennies today.

I rolled my eyes when Terry told me he wasn't feeling very good.

I've fancied the idea of hiring a hit man to knock off Ginger, the chicken. In my defense, father, it's only because I feel guilty that she's alone. And cold. And miserable.

I've fancied the idea of roasting Ginger with sage butter and a side of garlic mashed potatoes.

I told my friend over the phone today that I couldn't wait to see the photos of her surprise Christmas vacation to the Carribbean, while silmultaneously poking her voodoo doll with straight pins.

I finished a storybook three pages sooner than the way the real [awfully unimaginative Disney princess b.s.] story ended, with some imaginative improvisation on my part. If I may say so myself.

I may have thrown clean clothes back into the dirty clothes pile today, as the piles have grown so large that I can't distinguish one pile from another without some nasty pit/crotch sniffing practices.

I think Fiona looks kind of Girl Interrupted crazy with her new haircut, which in turn makes me mad.

I watched Mama's Boy in it's entirety last night.

I told Terry I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, only because he mentioned I looked cute holding one a few weeks ago. Father, he's been teaching me chords after the girls go to bed, and I've been faking my enthusiasm.

I had a beer at 4:30 this afternoon.

I sprayed Febreeze on some dirty jeans that I wore this morning.

Lastly, I confess that I must not deem these as true confessions, as I've posted them on a blog that my mom reads. I confess that even a good uneventful day, however, has it's demons.

Parents and Grandparents- HIDE YOUR SCISSORS!

Fiona and Neve return home last night, after spending the previous night with my parents.

Fiona looks different.

"Do you like my new haircut?"

The sides of her once beautiful hair have been chopped at the ear, while the back of her head still sports (and I do mean sport) long golden locks.

My parents have already come and gone by the time she confesses, quicker than their usual visit. I now understand the reason for their hurry.

I'm still appalled, saying nothing.

"Mom? Do you like how I cut my hair? Did you hear me?"


"Fiona. When did you- where did you- WHY!??"

Her bottom lips begins to quiver way too soon, almost as if she anticipated this very reaction, but with faint hope that I may have loved it.

"I thought you'd like it..."

"I don't. But even if I did, it still would have been a bad thing for you. KIDS CAN'T CUT HAIR!"

At the moment I blurted it out, I was thrown back to the time I shaved my brother's hair with my mom's Lady Bic razor when I was maybe 12 or 13 years old. (He was 6 or 7.) I proceeded to drape a towel over his butchered head and carefully escort him downstairs to my poor parents. In all my tweenie stupidity, I proudly revealed my brother's unwanted makeover to my (very) angry parents. "Ta Da!"

"You never said I can't cut his hair", was my answer to the same question I just asked Fiona. My dad went on to list all the things I'm never allowed to do to my brother (and myself, as it came to him). Some were funny, some were absurd, and some were seriously dark. Life has come full circle.

I cannot articulate in writing the funniest part of last night's events. I'm still not sure why, but Neve, actually, was the one who got upset for Fiona. She began screaming,

"Don't cut her pretty hair! No, no! She's going to look like a boy!!!!", sob, sob, sob. She had real, big tears in her eyes as she pleaded with me! Even Fiona looked confused over Neve's reaction, which made me and Fiona laugh and broke the ice.

"Neve, step back. Fiona, you will look like a boy. An ugly boy. And you will remember, every time you look in the mirror, that KIDS CAN'T CUT HAIR!"

Of course the vain mother in me overruled that idea, doing my darndest to keep from giving her an ugly boy's haircut. I kept mumbling, "WWAHD?", What Would Audrey Hepburn Do? Her haircut may not have achieved Audrey Hepburn standing, but at least we got beyond Patrick Swayze ranking.