My life as a writer (between magic shows and feats of telepathic genius).
Little M: Momma, Momma, you wanna see a magic trick?
Me: No (this may *seem* harsh but I’d been subjected to about 3 hours of magic tricks by then)
Little M: But it’s a really good one.
Me: How about making your magic kit disappear from the table so I can serve lunch?
Little M: Oh, Momma, Momma, do you want me to read your miiinnnndddd???
Me: Sweetie, if you could read my mind, you’d know to stop asking me that…
Good thing she’s incredibly adorable as well as being telepathic…
Posted in: The shorties
Me: (Enjoying a relaxing shower while keeping an ear out for the ruckus downstairs)
Little M: (runs into the bathroom) Hello mommy, we’y wunning fwum the bad man outside.
Me: !! Is there someone outside???
Little M: (sits on the toilet) We’y just pwetending to be spies. (grunt) Bwandon in my class is WEALLY a spy.
Me: (relieved and lathering) Oh. Is that right?
Little M: (more grunting) I know because he told me he’s a spy. He spies on his bwudder.
Me: (rinses and repeats) That’s nice. (Suddenly the water sears a layer of skin off my back) ARGHHH!!
Little M: Oh, sowwy mommy. I flushed.
Me: (regains sensation) That’s okay, sweetie. Just remember for next time.
Little M: I’m washing my hands!
Me: (moves away from the stream of water) Okay.
Little M: Whey’s the towel to dwy my hands?
Me: (settles back into my relaxing shower, remember?) They must be all in the laundry. Just use daddy’s.
Little M: Oh, yeah. He’s in New Yoke. He won’t need his towel.
Me: That’s right. But he’ll be back on Friday.
Little M: But if daddy’s in New Yoke, who’s going to do the laundwy?
I’m at home with my shortie today. Little M is a scream at the best of times but she is in top form today.
Since she’s in Junior Kindergarten, I get to spend a few days a week with her while Little C is in school. This is a treat since being the second; she’s never had my undivided time. So this morning, since it’s a day off school for her, we played…
Wait for it…
Little M, naturally, was the teacher and I was her special helper. She started off with a raucous session of addition. In her most teacherly voice, wielding a dry erase marker and white board, she put me through my paces:
Little M: 1 +1 =?
Me: um, two?
Little M: Vewy good, but you need to put up youw hand next time.
Little M: 11 + 11=?
Me: twenty two
Little M: No, but good guess.
On to spelling, a few minutes later…
Little M: C-A-T
Me: (Sweating profusely, this kid is a crackerjack) Cat!
Little M: Vewy good, mommy. Youwa genius. Now M-A-P
Little M: (Hand on hip) You fowgot to put up youw hand again.
Little M: Okay, now how about C…..(pauses for effect and turns to me) Mommy, what comes after C in ‘clowophyll’? (chlorophyll)
Being a writer and a full time mom can be quite a juggling act. Throw in a string of ear infections, a plethora of pink eye and the usual antics of a four year old diva and her six year old ultra sensitive sister and you have the makings of a whole lot of something going on. (Except writing of course)
I’ve logged in minus 200 words since school’s out and no wonder with scenes like this piling up like chicken wingbones at a sports bar.
Little C: Well I know best, because I am the oldest.
Little M: Second is the best, fiwst is the wowse.
Little C: Well, you don’t know anything, you’re such a baby!
Little M: Well youwah just a dough-head, anyway!
Me: (feeling the vein in my neck bulge as I try to wash the breakfast dishes in time for supper) Guys! Guys! That’s not how we speak to each other in this family. You need to change your tones and apologise.
Little C: Sor–ry!
Little M: Sow-wy!
3 minutes later…
Little M: whack, whack, whack
Little C: Mo-om! M is hitting me!
Me: (Drying my hands for the 6th time since I started supper to break up a fight) M, we don’t hit in this family. Apologise to C, please.
Little M: Sowwy C.
Me: Now go find something to do while I make supper. How about those sticker books we got at the store?
Off they trot…
1.4 minutes later
Little M: Dough-head
Little C: (comes running from the living room) Mo-om! M called me dough-head!
Me: (Exasperated. It’s 5:30, trying to get supper on the table, this is the 1300th Mo-om I’ve heard today) Well, don’t tell me–talk to M. If you have a problem with M, you’re going to have to work it out with her.
Little C: (considers this for a moment, then disappears back into the living room) M, don’t call me that. I don’t like that.
Little M: Sowwy dough-head.
And I wonder why I haven’t written a stitch since June.
Oh, the joys of having the youngest little girl on the street.
Granted, the little girls on our street are very sweet and tolerate having a 4 year old tag along, but it’s not without its challenges.
Little M just doesn’t have the wherewithal to keep up with the sophistication of 6 to 9 year old games. Even I have trouble keeping up at times. So there are times when little M just doesn’t get the joke, feels left out, made fun of, not listened to and let’s just say–the result is not pretty.
Then there are times she doesn’t get it and the results are impishly funny all the same.
Me: Make sure to hang up your clothes when you change into your bathing suit.
Little M: (hand up) Talk to my hand, mommy.
Me: (in my head) What did she just say?
Me: Do you want to wear the goggles?
Little M: (hand up, eyes slanted) Talk to my hand, mommy.
Me: (in my head) That’s what I thought she said…don’t laugh…don’t encourage her.
Me: You know, that’s a rude thing to say. I don’t want you saying that anymore.
Little M: (sheepish grin) Sowwy mommy.
Little C: (chimes up, eyes rolling) And it’s ‘Talk to THE hand’ anyway, M.