Sunday, November 21, 2010

Ho Ho Ho

After having been threatened with the ire of the (not so) Jolly Old Elf, The Devil wanders downstairs, after - apparently - having given this matter of Santa and his magical abilities some serious consideration, and says casually, over her shoulder, at me:

THE DEVIL: "You know, Santa is REALLY magic."

ME: "Oh?"

THE DEVIL: "Yes, he can turn into a submarine."

ME:" ... how... cool? But why would he do that?"

THE DEVIL: "Because he LIKES to!"

As I pause to figure out where this information might have come from - including taking a moment to wonder how she knows about the existence of submarines, and what nefarious uses she might have for such knowledge - she wanders back past me and informs me:

THE DEVIL: "Legos don't have submarines..."

(I notice she is holding some Legos. Sure enough, there are no submarines in sight. She may be on to something.)

THE DEVIL: "...because legos don't go in outer space..."

(A pause, complete with head-tilt, as she considers the matter further, and then)

THE DEVIL: "...because they don't go under water."

ME: (thinking myself clever) "But they could if they had submarines!"

THE DEVIL: (Scornful, and perhaps a tad fed up with mom being such a dolt) "But they DON'T."

ME: ""Why not?"

THE DEVIL: (Now openly disdainful) "Because Santa has all the submarines." (Eyeroll.)

And she wanders back upstairs saying "...and blah blah, Santa... blah blah..."

I confess that while I speak English and they appear to be spoken in same, I have no idea whatsoever what either of these little exchanges mean. But she's singing homemade Christmas carols to herself ("Merry merry merry happy Christmas time for all the ones merry merry and snow merry jingle ale ginger ale ginger bells happy Christmas birthday time...") so I guess it was a good conversation?

And only 33 more days till Christmas.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Mouths of Babes, etc.

The scene:

The devil - age 3.5 - is sitting in her favorite toddler chair, cooing at an unhappy orange kitten clenched to her chest. Every time she loosens her hold one iota, the kitten scrabbles around on her, leaving nifty gashes to be shown off later to an admiring older brother. (I have no doubt whatsoever that in her world, she's a Viking, comparing battle wounds around some smoky fire and swilling grog.)

Finally, she eases her grip on the cat for one nanosecond while reaching for a shape sorter to stuff it into, and it launches itself away from her like it has been shot from a small evil cannon, propelled mainly by the power of its back claws.

The dialogue:

THE DEVIL: "Oh, that's a good kitten, you're so nice, you're such a - YOU LITTLE BASTARD!"

ME: (Shocked. But, in retrospect, I'm not really sure why. ANYway...) "KATHERINE!!!"

THE DEVIL: (Clearly wounded by my tone) "What? I didn't say you were a little bastard..."


Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Short Shrift

See what happens when you don't have a disability (other than an insatiable urge to dominate humankind)?

Your mom neglects your blog.

So, by way of my renewed intention to blog here regularly, I offer the following, which seems appropriate, somehow.


"WHY won't you POOP?!?"

Understand, please, that we have two new 6-week-old kittens who are, shall we say, somewhat lax in their attempts to use the litter box for anything other than a simple squizzle, and the box has recently (like, this morning) been moved into that same bathroom. So one could assume this question was being posed to one or both of them.

One would be utterly wrong, but still... one could.

If only.

No, when asked to whom she was speaking, Her Majesty replied, with no little scorn in her voice for having to actually say OUT LOUD such an obvious thing...

"My BUTT."

(I would add a comment, but, really, after that? What could I possibly say?)

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Things We Have Done in the Past Week or So

Hmmm, lemme think.

Since Wednesday...

We puked. In mom's bed. On Dad's pillow. WHILE HE WAS USING IT.
We ran a fever.
We hung out all day in Number One's bed with him while HE had a fever, watching Spongebob and taking breaks for chicken soup and ice pops, and no one had a poke fight or called for Mommy ONCE, alarming Mommy greatly.
We coughed so much we puked some more...a lot...
We sneezed.
We ran another fever, and another, and another.
We went to the doctor, and were diagnosed with strep.
We took antibiotics.
We complained of tongue pain and stopped eating.
We went back to the doctor 36 hours after the first visit and were diagnosed with Coxsackie virus for these:

We took many more drugs, including some specially prepared concoction called "magic mouthwash".
We developed drug-butt from the all meds, creating some very.. um.. colorful diapers and bringing all potty training to a sudden and emphatic halt.
We went to the ER for the infected finger that the doctor had just looked at that morning but which had swelled alarmingly and was developing red streaks.

We were diagnosed with an "herpetic whitlow".
We had a new doctor who questioned the Coxsackie diagnosis.
We Googled "Coxsackie" and "herpetic whitlow".
We got yet another prescription, which the pharmacy didn't want to fill because the ER wrote the Devil's nickname instead of her full name, and we all know there's a red-hot black market for antivirals around here, yo.

We wrote a demented blog post!

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Nothing to report...

... but we took this today, and it occurred to me you might be interested, oh wonderful readers of the Blog That Shall Not Be Named.

I give you the Scourge of the Sentient Universe:

Do not be fooled! She may be all sunshine and unicorn farts NOW, but just WAIT till she can read *shiver* or DRIVE *shudder* or TRAVEL INDEPENDENTLY *faint*

Don't say I didn't warn you!

Monday, May 3, 2010


So... here it is. Visit-with-the-Oncologist-for-no-reason-other-than-to-set-your-mind-at-ease day. Know what we're doing (besides swilling caffeine to combat the abject lack of sleep this whole episode has caused)? Nothing.

Not. A. Thing.

No appointment. No call from the oncologist's office to cancel the appointment, either, mind you - which could have had us driving an hour to find ourselves SOL. I'm fairly certain that you would have heard about whatever happened next on the six o'clock news, so let's all just be grateful for small favors and agree that from now on, I call to confirm if the drive takes more than 20 minutes. Even if they just called me the day before.

And the reschedule isn't for another 2 weeks. (Sleep? HAH! I Laugh in the face of rest and downtime!)

AND I have no idea - because the oncologist's office staff had no idea - what preliminary paperwork they need (copies of tests, etc) from the pediatrician, or indeed, what they had already received in advance of this appointment.

BUT - we should fax... whatever it is... to Rita at the following number.

(Let us all also bow our heads and pray grateful prayers to whatever minor gods control my pediatrician's medical group, because at least between the nurse and the medical records lady there, they were able to determine what should be sent, and set it aside for me to grab when I take Number Two to his earache follow-up appointment on Thursday.)

Now, I confess that perhaps even a crack team of medical coders and receptionists appearing in lab coats on my doorstep, charts in hand, clipboards at the ready, ballpoints cocked, armed with cellphones and dispositions tending toward ruthless tenacity would not satisfy me at this juncture. I mean, after all, this is my precious (fallen *coff*) angel's appointment we're discussing. With a jesus-fricking-christ-are-you-SERIOUS?? oncologist, for crying out loud.



Not so much.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

You Keep Using That Word...

So the Devil has a glandular problem. (Yes, yes, I know this sounds like the lead-in to a terrible joke, but if it IS a joke, it is indeed terrible. Read on.)

The problem is, her glands - specifically, the ones on the side of her neck - are swollen, and HAVE been swollen, for well over a year. In fact, more like 2 years. We first noticed them 2 Junes ago when they erupted, Frankenstein-like, during what turned out to be a bout of strep. Antibiotics, and the strep went away. The swollen glands did not. The doctors at that point noted that often it can take much longer for such swelling to go down than it did for it to come on, and not to panic unless there was no change (or an increase) after several weeks. But - they went down. Not all the way, but a lot. So, fine.

Repeat this scenario time and time again.

And since no one was particularly worried, and her health was otherwise fine, we were reassured.

Now about a year ago, we got a new pediatrician when our beloved former pediatrician moved to Texas. [Insert "dumb old stupid Texas" comments from Spongebob, here.] We love her, particularly because she refuses to sugar-coat, refuses to panic, and is not one of those here-lemme-just-prescribe-a-bottle-of-something types. She believes in home remedies, in sometimes waiting to see, and in mother's intuition. So, yay.

And today, on yet another follow-up for yet another bout of swollen glands, she announced that although she is 99% certain it will be a colossal waste of our time, she wants us to make an appointment for the Devil with the Juvenile Hematology and Oncology Dept. at our local major medical center.


As in, cancer.


So, yeah. I'm handling it well. The appointment is May 3. And I know it will likely turn out to be nothing.


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Cartoons Are Bad, M'Kay?

Now we are all familiar with the ABC/Twinkle Twinkle/Baa Baa Black Sheep melody conundrum, which thwarts even the most musically-gifted Devil from singing any of those songs properly, and who among us could blame her? But, courtesy of THAT BLUE TRAIN (a.k.a. Thomas - and this must be shouted when we say it, I don't know why), we now face an even thornier dilemma: Windmills.

Yes, I know, they seem so innocent. And yet...

She: [Watching the opening scenes from Thomas] "What is THAT, Mommy?"
Me: "A windmill."
She: "A pinwheel?"
Me: "It DOES look kind of like a pinwheel, doesn't it? But that one is called WINDMILL. It's a big building."
She: "They spin aroooouuund!" (With arm motions)
Me: "Right! PINWHEELS spin when you blow on them. But WINDMILLS spin in the wind."
She: "It blow the clouds away up the sky?"
Me:"Umm... sure! Exactly!"
She: (grabbing a nearby pinwheel and spinning around holding it) "I blow clouds away! I a pinwheel."
Me: "You're a pinwheel?"
She: "NO, MOMMY." [Unspoken: You idiot!] "A PINMILL."
Me: "A windmill."
Me: "You're a pinwheel?"

...A moment to regain her internal fortitude before battling the obvious stupidity of this mother of hers...

She: "PIN. MILL. Mommy. PINMILL."
Me: "Pinmill?"
She:"NO!!!" [Throws hands in the air.] "Aye yie yie!" [Storms off, disgusted.]

So, yeah. Thanks Mr. English Language Creator Guy!

(Unrelated, but it happened next so you're getting it next, too:)

She gives up on THAT BLUE TRAIN and demands Tom & Jerry ("I LIKE 'poosycats'!"). The opening credits feature the MGM lion. She has seen them roughly 87 gajillion times, and each and EVERY DAMN TIME, shrieks at the top of her lungs, "THAT'S ONE BIG LION!!"

... and keeps shrieking it until I yell it back. EVERY TIME. I am powerless before the wall of lion-based noise and must yield!

Who run Bartertown? (HINT: Not me.)

Friday, April 16, 2010

A Wee Victory!

The Devil, who secretly likes to loll around in Mommy's bed in the morning and snuggle, but don't tell anyone or you'll ruin her bad reputation - rolled over and looked up at me this morning mid-pillow fight and announced, with an air of great consideration,

"I believe I want to use the potty. I need to pee and use a tissue." (Pronounced "tiss-you", by the way.)

Suffice it to say we were in the bathroom at the speed of light. She stripped off her own (mercifully almost dry) diaper without hesitation, clambered up on the potty seat, and as I turned away to throw out the diaper... PEE!!

The Devil has officially begun potty-training, all on her own. Mommy and Daddy, who currently live in a shoe and suck on any discarded pizza boxes they find for nutrition due to the cost of having two children in diapers, are beyond delighted.

But... does this mean I have to change the blog name to "The Devil in Pink Pull-Ups"?

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I'll Be Here All Week...

The Devil knows a zinger when she sees one.

AND has a deadly-accurate sense of comedic timing.

Allow me to recreate the scene:

Number One and I, as is our habit, have retired to my big floompy (shut up, it is too a word) memory-foam-and-down-comforter bed of endless squishy joy, for our nightly pre-bed story. He has chosen a beautiful book created by a couple of wildlife photographers which chronicles the reactions of animals in a snowy wood to the sudden overnight appearance of a snowman. (See the website for the book, "Stranger in the Woods" here, and credit to Carl R. Sams II and Jean Stoick for their beautiful photos, including the one above.)

The Devil, as is HER habit, demands to be included in this activity. Since it is meant to be both mommy-boy time, and a wind-down in advance of sleep, I sometimes try to discourage this (it inevitably leads to horseplay of the break-my-bed and hurt-my-kids variety), but then again.. it's READING! And she wants to be with her big brother! And.. and.. READING!

(I know, I know, she's lulling us into a false sense of security.)

So, of course, I cave. With Number One's permission. So she sits in my lap and gets herself all arranged in the fluffy blankie and looks at me expectantly, and we begin, with Number One and I taking turns reading pages out loud.

At every page, she announces what animals we see. A reindeer! [Garden-variety white-tailed deer.] A moose! [Another deer.] A... penguin! [A chickadee. She gets points for the tuxedo reference.] A squirrel! (It was!)

For about 10 minutes, we are very much a nauseatingly sweet little group, reading our book, pointing at animals, and snuggling. I allow myself a small, smug smile and a moment's pity for all those people who lack such a charming family.

And then we see a picture very much like the one below (not the actual book pic, which I couldn't find online, but a very similar angle), and she says...

... "A cat butt!"


(Thanks to Amy E Fraser's blog, Exalted Beauty, for excellent cat bu - er, porcupine pic!

Saturday, April 10, 2010

OMG another post?!

Yeah, yeah.

I just needed a place to document this so I don't forget. So hush!


The Devil loves yogurt. She loves it frozen, she loves it mushy. She probably would love it red hot if we'd let her try it. And the other night, Miss Independent decided to fetch herself a Gogurt tube and a juice pouch from the fridge, which she presented to me for opening with a self-satisfied smirk. Once consumed (in record time), she fetched another.

When she attempted to fetch a third in 3 minutes, I felt that, for the sake of everyone ever involved in cleaning up pastel yogurt-puke, I should intervene. So, we have the following exchange:

She: "I eat more yogurt?"

Me: "No. You'll get sick."

She: "I get sick?" ... (Pause to consider) ... "I eat yogurt! Yogurt is HEALTHY."

Curse you, Nick Jr!

She moves toward the kitchen. I jump in front of her.

Me: "NO. Your belly will hurt."

Ooo! Brainstorm! I can distract her!

Me: "I know! I eat your TOES!"

And before I can do more than raise my hands, zombie-like, she - she who is still 3 months from turning 3! - glances up at me with a delighted expression and proclaims...


... and collapses under the weight of her own pun's hilarity.

I... am doomed.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Equal Time

Now that her rotten little brother is a blogstar in his own right, I must give the Devil her due. Mainly because, well... what will happen to me later, when she can read, if I don't?


Since it has been quite a while, I present to you a compendium of cuteness, Devil-style, to catch you up on She Who Must Be Obeyed:

Lito & Kiku

The Devil has officially renamed every dog "Lito". And then it became a noun, as in "Oh, Momma, look at that cute lito." (This is also applied, very occasionally, to some cats, though they seem to mostly be spared... proof of their demonic allegiance?) This is also what she does to every little girl she encounters (even those whose names she knows full well), to whom she refers as "Kiku".

Bonus points (and my condolences) if you know which TV show has so melted her little mind that it is now the ultimate point of reference for her social interactions.


The Devil hates to be out of the loop, as we all know. And what better way to insinuate herself into our collective psyches in advance of world domination than to blog, have an FB account, and tweet? So, to that end (I am quite certain), she has embarked on a rigorous regimen of alphabet memorization that can only be viewed as a hostile prelude to a text-based campaign of terror. So far, however, humanity has been spared by the miraculous serendipity of "Baa Baa Black Sheep" and "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" sharing the same tune as the alphabet song - which leads to sweetly-sung tunes like "A e b c d d d, how I g a a a c, yes sir, yes sir a c b c." (Repeat ad nauseum.) I'd correct her, but it's so cute when she does it, I just can't bring myself to. Also, as mentioned before, I fear for all of our safety once she can read (and thus follow the instructions on things such as cell phones, blogs, and nuclear devices.) So let's all just smile indulgently and move along, shall we?

::backs away slowly from singing child::

Orange you glad...

So I'm making food of some sort and Her Ladyship joins me in the kitchen, no doubt to make sure I am not lacing her food with tranquilizers to gain a moment's sanity.

She: "What's dat?"

Me: "Food."

She: (hopeful) "Food for Katie?"

Me: (all wide-eyed and innocent) "Katie who?"

She: "Knock knock!"

Baskets full of Babies

First, a moment of oh-how-cute: Number 2, being hungry, was standing around flapping his hands and hooting, because he observed his sister getting graham crackers and - quite sensibly - assumed she would never share. Much to all of our surprise, she not only decide to give up her stash, but broke them into little pieces according to his specifications, and presented them to him making reassuring comments along the lines of "There you go Jamesy, it's okay, don't be hungry."

Now you may all think this is charming, and I suppose, in its way, it is.


Another moment: I look up from my computer to see Legion cradling a small stuffed bunny. She has ensconced it in the little padded bed that came with a puppy toy, and wrapped it in a wee blankie, and is very diligently trying to feed it "carrots" (orange crescent-moon shaped blocks from the shape sorter) while a variety of other stuffed critters, large and small, look on. I watch her a moment, thinking deep thinks on the maternal instinct and generally being overcome by the sweetness of it all, when I hear her say to the bunny, "Hurry up and eat this. You have to get fat, the bear is hungry!"

Uhhh... yeah.

Welcome back.