Foolery

Guide for Safe Foolery Viewing

 


(Photo stolen from this site)

Smedley, practicing her ballet on Saturday, was trying out "spotting," which helps dancers keep from getting dizzy when they spin. She focused on a single spot each time she made a revolution; the spot she chose to focus on was my face.

"Hey Mama, I'm looking at your face, and I'm not dizzy! It works!"

Apparently I need to wear a warning sticker on my face.

 

Try to Stay Clam, Mama

Going to the grocery store after work yesterday, just Sparky and me. From the back seat came this question:

"Mama, don't you think the mumble mumble mumble?"

Um. What?

"I'm sorry -- what honey?"

Sparky repeated it with the same clarity and a tinge of exasperation.

Silence.

"Sparky?" I started. It really sets her off when I ask her to repeat something -- anything. "Slow each word down, please. I can't understand the last part."

"HEEL BLAM! HEEL BLAM!" she shouted, indignant as a wet cat.

It finally dawned on me that she was talking about some stuff my mom had given me to use, which I did -- once. The girls are fascinated with it. This is it:

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

Won't be sending her to the store for "hnad cream" any time soon.

First Day of First Grade: The Debriefing

(Image stolen from these guys)

Smedley chattered on and on at Friday's breakfast table about third grade. Sparky seemed reserved, so I tried to draw her out.

"How do you like your new teacher, Sparky?"

"Fine."

"Any new kids this year?"

"No."

"How do you like going to school for the full day?"

"It's NOT a full day."

Mama tripped a trip wire. "Well, they call it a full day because you don't go home at lunch time; you stay until 3:00."

"But it's NOT a full day! We don't stay there until dark, you know." Hostility.

"Sparky? Whatsamatter, honey? I thought sure you'd like first grade."

"I do, it's just . . . well, we didn't learn anything new. It's exactly like kindergarten. I knew all the answers already. It was really easy."

I assured her that by the end of the week she'd be doing trigonometry and open heart surgery and she seemed relieved. Problem solved.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

"The Talk" Approacheth

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Here's another meaningful conversation from Casa Foolery -- this one happened tonight as I washed dishes.

SMEDLEY, AGE 8 1/2: Mama, Sparky said something really gross when we were playing Barbies, and I don't want to tell you.

ME, AGE 43 11/12 AND GETTING OLDER BY THE SECOND: Okay.

SMEDLEY, WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A PAUSE: Oh, all right, I'll tell you. Sparky took a girl Barbie and a boy Barbie [that'd be Ken for those of you scoring at home, and I do hope you are] and she took their clothes off and she made them kiss and she made them say, "Let's have sex."

ME, STILL AGE 43 11/12 BUT FEELING LIKE NEANDERTHAL OR CRO MAGNON MAN OR CHER OR SOMETHING: Okay ["Okay" is the standard Foolery response that works equally poorly on kids and parents]. So maybe if that kind of play makes you feel uncomfortable, you should ask her not to play that way?

[Wait for it . . .]

SMEDLEY: I DID! [You saw that coming, didn't you?] She said, "Well, Mommy and Daddy had sex once, so it's okay!"

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

[I'll just let that sink in a little more.]

[Beat.]

[Beat.]

ME, TRYING NOT TO DROP A SOAPY GLASS OR ONE OF LIFE'S MOST IMPORTANT MOMENTS, OR BOTH: Honey, it's okay to be curious about sex and all that stuff [no, for real, I really did! I KNOW, can you believe it?! And here Chas and I had sex ONLY THE ONE TIME AND ALL, and I'm qualified to give her "The Talk"?!] but I'd rather that you didn't play Barbies that way. Other kids might think that you girls are . . . not so nice, and we know that that isn't true [suddenly remembering using the word HARLOT in front of Smedley the other day, for some reason -- "Mama, what's a harlot?"]. Instead, if you or Sparky have questions about sex, you could come ask me [or Daddy! Yes, DADDY! Good idea!] right then, how about that?

SMEDLEY, DOUBTFULLY: Okay . . . I'll go tell her . . . Mama?

ME, AGE 207: Yes?

SMEDLEY: Are you SURE you're ready to talk to Sparky about it, right now?

ME: Yes. [NO! NO! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NO!!!!!] I'm sure.



But they weren't ready for The Talk either, apparently. Def-Con alert back to yellow. After relating this story to Chas, who giggled especially hard at the implication that he was a one-hit wonder with two children, he added this gem, from earlier today.

SMEDLEY: Daddy, does Mama know you're fixed?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

You Can Have My Girl But Don't Touch My Hat

Photo stolen from these guys)

I don't seem to be able to get it together lately. In between bouts with inflamed skin, a tail bone on the move, and all-night animal games (cats, dogs, owls, coyotes, whatever), I am shot.

I'll just share this little zinger from Sparky, a question she popped apropos of nothing, as we clambered out of the car this afternoon.

Sparky: "Smedley, do you think that cowboys who really, really like being cowboys wear their hats to bed?"

If I didn't know better I'd swear that five-year-old Sparky had been smoking funny plants and picking at her navel fuzz today.

Everybody Poops -- Some Just Share More Than Others

(Photo stolen from pkumag over here)

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

One old saw about the indigenous people of the Far North -- Eskimo, Innuit, I've lost track of the proper name -- is that they have over 100 words for snow. I have no way of knowing if this is true or not, but I'm certain that even if that old story is wrong by half, the Far North people have 49 more words for snow than I have.

We, however, have cornered the market on ways to say pooping.  And when I say we, I mean Chas, of course. And when I say Chas, I mean Chas and his two daughters, of course. No relation to their mother, who would, of course, be me.

And while I know that the girls have picked up terms from Daddy such as "punched a grumper" and "scatterbombed," and while I'm thankful that their vocabulary has not yet included "carpet bombed," "panatellas," "dry-docked" and "dropped off the kids at the pool," still they take my breath away once in a while with some unexpected colorful poop reference. Such as . . .

Smedley, when asked if she had forgotten to flush, denied it and casually added, "Sparky dropped a deuce just after I used the bathroom."

We're going straight to Hell, aren't we? And by we I mean, of course, Chas.



This toilet is pretty similar to the first toilet Chas and I had as a married couple, except ours was even greener. Chas dubbed it both "The Avo-Coiler" and "The Guac-commode." If you have to ask about the names, you're far too upscale a person to be reading here. I'm so sorry to have burned your retinas.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Oops, gotta fly -- I've got to go drop the kids off at the pool.

Kidding, kidding!

An Ad Campaign That'll Never Get Off the Ground

SPARKY, READING MY EYE GLASSES CASE: "Mama, what does this spell -- C-A-L-V-I-N ?"

ME:  "Sound it out."

SPARKY:  "CAVLIN?"

ME:  "Just try the C-A-L part."

SPARKY, HESITATING:  "Cavlin . . . Colon?"



Nothing comes between my colon and Cavlin. Nothing.

High Deductible? Maybe Shawnie Can Help!

Smedley made a paper hospital yesterday, and she's been playing Hospital with her Polly Pockets dolls. She has made little hospital gowns out of paper for the dolls; from what I remember of hospital gowns, I prefer Smedley's.

Smedley: "Daddy, this is the hospital, and Polly was in the hospital, but she didn't have good insurance, so she's staying over at Shawnie's place."

I swear that's how she said it. We have never discussed insurance in front of her -- heck, we didn't even know she had heard the word! -- so we have no idea where that come from.

Should I ever need medical attention, I'm gonna stay at Shawnie's house.

Listening to Their Wheels Turn

(Photo stolen from this site)

Smedley, first full day of being 8 years old:

"Look, Mama, I added some blush to Cinderella.  'Cause if you don't see Sleeping Beauty's eye bags, you MUST see Cinderella's blush, right?"

Whaaa?

Sparky, about Smedley, who was, on her birthday, chattering and chattering:  "Mama, I can't believe Smedley is really eight.  'Cause she SOUNDS just like she did when she was seven."

A Smedley's-Eye View of Things

I let the kids and Chas sleep in this morning, so the house was quiet as I ate my Total in the kitchen.  Then I heard the familiar pad pad pad of Smedley's footie jammies approaching.

"Morning, Smed," I said as I kissed her tousled head.  Smedley launched right into her agenda.

"Mama, I just noticed something about Sparky.  You know how she always wants to crawl into bed and snuggle next to you, not Daddy?"

"Uh-huh."

"And she cries if she can't be next to you?"

"Yeah."

"Well . . . I just think it's funny that she always wants to sit next to Daddy, not you, at the table.  Of course, I do that too, sometimes --"

"Yes, you do."

"-- but not as much as Sparky."

She sighed a bemused sigh and shook her head.  "Little kids are funny that way."

And then she padded away in her pink fuzzy footie jammies, pad pad pad.

Another Conversation I Couldn't Get Out Of

(Photo stolen from tsweden on Flickr)

 

Driving home from our weekly visit with my great Aunt Helen Tuesday night, and this happened.

ME:  ". . . blah blah blah blah GENIUS blah blah blah . . ."  Oops.  Uh-oh.  I had a bad feeling about that overused word as soon as it carelessly left my mouth.  I can't be careless around --

SMEDLEY:  "Mama, do you know any geniuses?"

ME:  "No."

SMEDLEY:  "Why not?"

ME:  "Well, geniuses are extremely rare.  You and I aren't likely ever to meet a genius in our whole lives."  Uh-oh, my spidey sense is tingling . . .

SMEDLEY:  "I'm a genius."   At this point I could have, should have stopped it.  

ME:  "No you're not."  I really expected her to say, "Well, but I'm pretty smart," or something like that, and that would be the end of it.  BUT NO-O-O-O-O.

SMEDLEY:  "YES, I AM.  I'M A GENIUS.  I AM."

ME:  "No, honey, you're not.  Do you know what a genius is?"

SMEDLEY:  "A genius is really, really smart."

ME:  "True, but it goes way beyond just smart -- "

SMEDLEY, YELLING NOW:  "I GO WAY BEYOND JUST SMART!"

SPARKY, THE 5-YEAR-OLD:  "Guys, guys, relax!  Calm down!"  Condescended to by a 5-year-old.  Arguing with a 7-year-old.  We know who's NOT a genius here.

ME:  "Honey, I'm not saying you're not smart -- of course you are.  And more than that, we're proud of you when you work hard and do your best.  But a genius is more than that.  It's measured by a test score."  Oh crap, I would have to say that.  I know exactly what's coming next . . .

SMEDLEY:  "Where do I get this test?"

ME:  "Well, they used to test kids in school, but I don't think they do now."  GAHH!  Why can't I shut up, already?  Listen to Sparky!  Sing some Frosty the Snowman, fer cryin' out loud in a bucket!

SMEDLEY:  "Did you take the test?"  Lie.  Lie, dammit, LIE!

ME:  "Grandma says I did, but I don't remember."  This just gets worse and worse.  Are you high?  STOP!

SMEDLEY:  "Are you a genius?"

ME:  "Certainly not."  No argument from her, I notice.

SMEDLEY:  "Well, what was your score?"

ME:  "I don't know."

SMEDLEY:  "They didn't tell you?"

ME:  "They told Grandma, and she told them not to tell me."

SMEDLEY:  "WHY NOT?  THAT'S NOT FAIR!"

ME:  "Grandma didn't want me to know, and I think that was very wise of your grandma."

SMEDLEY:  "That's crazy.  Grandma will tell me.  Well, anyway, I AM A GENIUS, AND --"

ME:  "Honey, did someone tell you that you're a genius?"

SPARKY:  "Guys, guys!  Forget it!  Relax!"  She did not say "chill out," for which I'll be eternally grateful.

SMEDLEY:  "Auntie Helen.  She says I'm a genius at drawing, all the time."

ME:  "Honey, every member of our family has, at one time or another, been told by Auntie Helen that they are geniuses.  It doesn't make it true.  She just loves you, and --"

SMEDLEY:  "But I AM a genius at drawing!  When can I take the genius test?"

ME:  "Not 'til you're 18."  This is the first half of my standard answer, for everything from changing her name to moving out to coloring her hair to trying marijuana, and yes, I've already had all of these discussions with a 7-year-old.  The second half of my standard answer is, "but not if I have anything to say about it."

SPARKY:  "Christmas lights!  I saw 'em first!"

SMEDLEY:  "No, I did; I just didn't say anything."

Genius.

Never Teach Children and Dogs to Read

("Woman Writing Letters" by Charles Dana Gibson stolen from this site)

Dear Gubby,

Thank you for the very funny Obama t-shirt photo you e-mailed me.  I think you should know that it brought some unintended consequences.  The photo arrived while Smedley was sitting near the computer.  "Hey, that had a bad word on it," she said.

"Yeah, I know, and I shouldn't have opened it in front of you, but --"

"It said 'chill the f--"

"HEY!  Don't repeat it!"

"But it said 'chill the f&*# out!'  That's a bad word!  That's --"

"SMEDLEY!  Stop it.  Stop saying it.  I KNOW what it said, but just STOP IT.  If you say it again you're in trouble."

Smedley is seven.  I was 27 before I knew the F-word, I'm pretty sure.  Thank you for your help in this matter.  I'm e-mailing your dog naked Sarah Palin pictures.

Love,

Laurie

(Sarah Palin photo stolen from this site; T-shirt photo provided by Gubby)

Greetings From The Baseball Bat Planet

Holy criminy, isn't September over YET?! I think I have aged 8-9 years since Labor Day. And, because I labored quite enough today, thank-you-very-much, and have nothing but clean laundry, mushy brains and a butt-kicking lasagna to show for it, I am taking the lazy way out.

I am committing the Unforgivable Blogging Sin.

Yes, you guessed it, I am posting my children's art. AGAIN.

Sorry.

This one is from Smedley.

It's called "Beach Boys!" and it's from June of this year. Check out the eyebrows. Yes, Smedley fully understands the dramatic effect of eyebrows. I want to yell to the girls just out of frame, "RUN! They're evil beach boys! LOOK AT THEIR EYEBROWS! It's a dead give-away!!"

Here's one from Sparky:

It's called "shark selling neckleses," also from June (the same day as Smedley's, actually), and features the calligraphic stylings of big sister Smedley, who took dictation and named the file. I find lots of these on my computer, saved in the last files I had open. I also wasn't aware that sharks were so swarthy.

Here's another Sparky creation, this one from Labor Day:

"Magical Treat Land." This says "Mama, this is supposed to be a fun day not a work day" better than any words ever could.

And finally from Smedley once again:

This is my new personal favorite. She called it simply "Universe," and proceeded to name for me each of the planets in their correct order. The copywriter in me sees all kinds of possible titles . . .

"Mars -- Now With Hair Extensions!"

"Saturn: The Baseball Bat Planet"

"Uranus is a Snooty Neighbor"

Okay, I never said I was a GOOD copywriter. Happy Monday, y'all.

Parade of Nations

We were watching the Olympic opening ceremony tonight, when a Budweiser clydesdale ad came on TV.  Smedley watched it with great interest, until she saw the sponsor name at the end, at which time she became quite indignant.

Smedley:  "BUDWEISER!  Budweiser is SO --"

Me:  "Budweiser makes some of the best ads, my dear."

Smedley:  "Yeah, but they make some of the worst beer."

It's these little moments when I realize my child is growing up that choke me up the most.  And also, that her daddy has totally brainwashed her.

Other Olympic-watching quotes:

"That's either a swan or a big loogey."

"Mommy, you don't need a sparkling suit -- you have a banana suit."

Ah, if only someone had some personality in our house. *sigh*

Smedley Is SO In Trouble

I've been busy with family visiting all weekend -- both of my brothers and a whole pile of rugrats.  One of the activities on the docket today was riding Grandpa's 4-wheeler, for which Uncle Mantel Man was the designated adult.  Each of the five kids, aged 8 down to 4, got a ride with their uncle.  This was waiting for me in my inbox tonight from Uncle Mantel Man when I got home from Grandma and Grandpa's:

"Ya gotta laugh at Smedley and the things she comes up with.  While she was taking her turn on the four-wheeler with me, I pointed along the edge of the pasture and said, 'Before you were born, there was a great big old tree down there."' How did she reply?

'You've got a bigger brain than I thought you had.'

I don't think she's left-handed, but her compliments sure are."

Thanks, Uncle Mantel Man, and sorry you had to go home early (but I imagine you're not that sorry).

Smedley On Artists

5/18/08 Smedley, age 7:

"Every artist has something in mind and never lets go of it."

I don't know where she got this, but she said it as she was drawing this morning, and she said it just came to her.

"Invisible Lady," drawn by Smedley 9/28/06 (age 5 1/2 at the time)

He's Neutered, I Swear

This is Campos, doing what he does best.



Let me give you another angle to set the scene, in case you don't quite have a fix on him.



Okay.  About half an hour ago I checked on fussed with yelled at cuddled yelled at my daughters for the third time since bedtime, and Smedley was urgently telling me something (as usual) as she cuddled.

" . . . blah blah blah . . . just like when Campos sat on my face."

Whaaaaa?

Me:  "He did?  He sat on your face?"

Smedley, giggling:  "Yes, he did!  And it felt like a couple of big furry prunes."

You just can't make this stuff up, I tells ya.

Shy Toots

(Photo stolen from Groove Alliance on Flickr)*

Around our house, farts are funny.  Only we don't call them "farts,' we call them "toots."

So Chas apparently was getting into position to toot -- one cheek off the chair, I presume -- but couldn't pull the trigger.  Smedley looked at him and asked if he were going to toot.

"Well, I was," said Chas, "But it's just not ready to come out."

"Is it straightening its tie?" asked Smedley.

Don't look at me; I have no idea.

*That isn't me, by the way, straightening The Big Toot's Saddam's tie, but my hat is off to this cheeky climber, and I'm sure Chas will have a salute of his own.

A Political Discussion with Smedley

(Photo stolen from Danny Engesser on Flickr) 

"Mama, who is Barrack?" Smedley asked at dinner tonight.  I told her.  She had questions, and so, impressed with her interest, I launched into an explanation of the three main candidates, emphasizing only the positive.

"Who's the smartest?" she wanted to know.  I chose to waffle, instead starting a sidebar about who had gone to which college, etc.

"Who are you going to vote for?" she asked me.  "John McCain?"

I told her that I thought so, unless something happened to change my mind.  "It's possible that I could vote for Barrack Obama," I said.

"Not Hillary?" she asked.  I told her No, probably not.  "Do you hate her?" she asked.

Where on earth is she getting these ideas?  Certainly not from either Chas or me.  "No, I don't hate her!" I answered.  "I'm not a big fan of hers, but she is definitely smart and tough, and might make a very good president -- who knows?  But I just think the other two are . . . better --"

"People?" she offered.

Wow.

"Well, yes, I guess so.  I like who they are better than I like who she is.  I would trust either of them more than I would trust Hillary Clinton.  But I don't hate her.  I admire some things about her, actually."  And I told Smedley a few of those things.

"Do other people hate her?" Smedley asked.  This was HARD.

"Yes, it's true, lots of people REALLY don't like Hillary Clinton," I said.  "But there are people you know and love who really like her.  It doesn't make them bad, or wrong, it's just a different way of looking at things.  You can't help who you like and don't like, right?  You can't help it that you don't like lima beans or coconut; it's just how things ARE."  I was feeling more in control than at the start of this conversation; I might actually be reaching my seven-year-old.  I think she gets this.  Next question.

"Do you not like Hillary because she goes to the Playboy Mansion?" she asked.

My jaw hit the table -- THUD.

Whaaaa?

I corrected this little misunderstanding, and thought I had her back on track, when --

"Do other people hate her because she sometimes goes out in just underwear and bras?"

Whaaaa?

"Well, I've seen pictures of Hillary in underwear and bras, in front of people, really --"

You can't help it if you don't like lima beans, and you can't talk politics with anybody -- especially not a seven-year-old.


(Photo stolen from these guys) 

Edit:  Thanks to MamaMo (and welcome, by the way!) for this link -- apparently Hillary really DID go to the Playboy Mansion!  Now how the heck did Smedley find out about it?!

Sparky: Playing the Catskills Next Summer

Sparky went a little nuts in the comedy department yesterday.  Lucky for me she didn't know she was being funny.

 

While driving home I hit a tire iron lying in the street, that I couldn't see until it was unavoidable.  CLANG!

 

Sparky:  "What was that?"

 

Me:  "Oh, I hit a . . . thing."  Traffic was a bit heavy, I was distracted, and anyway I often can't come up with the right . . . thing.

 

Sparky:  "I think it was a broken plate.

 

Me:  "No, it was a metal . . . thing.  Besides, why would a plate be lying in the middle of the street?"

 

Sparky, defensively:  "Maybe someone bought a plate from a plate truck and then dropped it on the street."

 

Smedley:  "A plate truck?  There's no such thing as a plate truck."

 

Sparky:  "There is too!  I saw one!  You don't know!"  At which point I sensed Sparky was gearing up for a showdown, so I diffused the situation.

 

Me:  "Oh, I dunno, Smedley -- there COULD be a plate truck.  I haven't seen one, but it's possible."

 

Smedley, quietly, with obvious disdain for her idiot mother:  "No it isn't."

 

Sparky:  "But one time?  When I was TWO?  I SAW a plate truck, and there was a whole big line of people in line to buy plates.  I DID.  When I was TWO.  It's TRUE.  YOU DON'T KNOW."

 

Me:  "You're right, honey, it could be true, I just don't know, and I believe with all my heart that you saw a plate truck selling plates beside the road."

 

Smedley, even quieter:  "There's no such thing."

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

 

I was quietly laughing to myself during this whole conversation, unaware that the exchange to come would challenge my ability to keep the car on the two-lane road at 65 mph without swerving into oncoming traffic.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Smedley:  "Mama, is Jack Black famous?"

 

Me:  "Yeah, I guess he is."

 

Smedley:  "What does he do?"

 

Me:  "Well, he's an actor . . . and I think he has a band."

 

Smedley:  "What's it called?"

 

Me:  "Ummmm . . . I forget.  It starts with a T, I think.  I can't remember."*

 

Smedley:  "Tigers?"

 

Me:  "No, don't try to guess.  All I remember is that it starts with a T and that there's no way you'd ever guess it, so please don't keep guessing."  The guessing game would likely go on for the entire car trip and escalate to frustrated shouting, I knew.  I had successfully staved off such a conflict.  Until . . .

 

Sparky:  "Redsocks?"

 

Me:  "No, Redsocks doesn't start with a T, does it?  Silly!  I'll try to think of it --"

 

Smedley:  "THAT would be TEDSOCKS!  HA HA HA HA HA!"

 

Me:  "Oh, you guys --"

 

Sparky:  "Tits?"

 

 

 

I'll wait.

 

 

 

Yes, you read that right.  No, we don't use that word.  Yes, I nearly clipped a UPS truck.  No, she didn't laugh, and she didn't know that I was laughing, silently, into my hand, as the tears literally ran down my face and over the back of my hand.  I fought to regain composure enough to squeak out an answer before they figured out that I was doing The Silent Laugh.

 

Me:  "No, that starts with T, but that's not the name of Jack Black's band."  Actually, I think I managed only a strangled "no."

 

On to get groceries at the "greasy store," known to others in Orland as Sav-Mor, Th Land Whr E's Ar Not Wlcom.

 

Once home from shopping I put away groceries while the girls fed the cats.  Sparky was in the laundry room for a long time.  "What're you doing in there, Sparky?" I called.  She came in, wide-eyed as only a four-year-old can look, with a very important Sparky Announcement about her new (self-appointed) status as Litter Box Sanitation Engineer.

Sparky:  "Mama, can we pluck the turds AFTER dinner?  Because it's late."

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Yes we can.

*The band is Tenacious D, and I have no idea how I know that.