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."
She:"PINWHEEL."
Me: "You're a pinwheel?"
She: "A PINMILL!"

...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.)

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"?

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!"


*siiigh*




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

OMG another post?!

Yeah, yeah.

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

Meanwhile...

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...

"TOEgurt!!"

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

I... am doomed.

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?

So!

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.

AEEED's

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.

Except...

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.

Gone Fishin'

So Number One Son has a new food fascination: Pepperidge Farm goldfish. Specifically, the pizza flavored version, which is covered in a brilliant dark orange, spice-flecked dust that makes the formerly neat (and much beloved, as a result) snack taste the way our local Mexican take-out joint smells, and leaves delightfully Renaissance-inspired Titian powder all over everything the moment you open the bag.

Now you might not suspect this - unless of course you've read any of the other posts on this blog - but the Devil has a sensitive stomach. So we have not introduced her to this gastronomic pleasure, mainly because the prospect of cleaning up flame-colored vomit does not thrill. Also, since she tends to enjoy expanding her tactile horizons by engaging in free creative expression in a variety of media (read: she likes to smear an appalling array of things all over the house when I'm not looking), I have no intention of setting her loose with something that generates residue the color of carrots, and, I'm morally certain, stains the very air. However, the Devil has Number One thoroughly beguiled. So, when I - ever so foolishly - was doing something I reckoned was infinitely more imperative than maintaining a constant state of vigilance against the Devil's mind-control games with her sibling (say, feeding the Small Boy, or earning a living, or some other ridiculous task), Number One caved in and gave her the end of the bag of fish.

Let me repeat that, in case the full implication has escaped you. He gave her... THE BAG. Not just the fish OUT of the bag, which would have been bad enough, no! He gave her the bag full of crumbs and dust and oil and several heaping handfuls of poisson d'or. I would have complimented him on his generosity, except - and this is the truly terrfying part - I DIDN'T KNOW HE HAD GIVEN IT TO HER.

Cut to the next morning.

I am aware, peripherally, of this bag of fish perched on a windowsill up out of the Devil's reach. If I considered it all, I'm sure I simply dismissed it as being a cast-off, and of no interest to her because she had never had any - but upon reflection, I'm equally sure she used the Jedi mind trick on me to make me think that.

The Devil has ways, you know.

So, secure in the knowledge that the Devil was safely confined in the Babyproof Zone, I exited the room for a moment, only to become aware of the sound of a bag crinkling, punctuated by low giggles. It took me a moment to figure out what I was hearing, and once I knew, I confess that I simply continued on my original errand resignedly, pausing only to call back over my shoulder "You're not eating those goldfish, are you? You know Mommy doesn't want you touching that bag..." because of course, we all agree this will immediately stop all illicit bag-touching activity in its tracks.

Except -wait, what? The noise actually ... stopped?

Because I have been a mother for more than one and a half seconds, the silence filled me with a deep apprehension of the type that - I can only assume - makes soon-to-be-slaughtered campers stop and look behind them at exactly the wrong moment when being pursued through the night woods by chainsaw-weilding madmen. Dreading the inevitable, I return to the living room post-haste, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the Devil sitting sweetly in the rocker, a small smile playing on her lips.

Her bright orange lips.

And so begins the inquisition:

"Legion, did you touch Number One's goldfish?"

Solemn headshake: No. Please note, the Devil is only 19 months old, and has already figured out she should lie about this, despite being unable to actually talk. Chilling.

"Did you eat the fish?"

Another headshake, big blue eyes peering up at me innocently from under long lashes, her little pink - and orange - bow mouth pursed in contrition: No, of course not.

Frightening. And vastly amusing, considering the state of her face, with its cheddar-based clown make-up.

"Are you sure...?"

Another headshake, but this one seems somehow tentative... and then...

Giggles. Vast, belly-jiggling, shoulder-shaking giggles, well on their way to becoming outright guffaws, stifled only by sheer force of will and desperately clenched apricot lips, out of which suddenly spews a mass - a flood, a cascade, a deluge! - of damp, sticky goldfish.

And I, in my infinite maternal wisdom, can have only one possible response - one reaction which summarizes all my experience, knowledge, and hopes for my beloved progeny:

Ew.

Devil on Pause

Sometimes, the devil is kind.

However, the devil hates for people to know this.

In an effort to stem the rising tide of toys and other baby paraphernalia that threatens to overrun our living room, we have installed a huge, roughly rectangular wicker basket in the corner in which to catch all the toy flotsam and stuffed animal jetsam. When I say "huge", I don't mean big enough to park the car in, but certainly I could put all 3 children in it, if I stacked carefully and made Number One Son scrunch down a little. And believe me, it's tempting.

So, as you might imagine (were you prone to imagining things about wicker baskets, which I frankly hope you are not), this basket is quite heavy when full. It has built-in handles on the short sides, and is more cumbersome to lug about than, say, a laundry basket loaded with soiled sleepers and fouled footies, and about twice the height.

The devil, just as a point of reference, is about two and a half feet tall. This thing is up to her chin.

So the other day, as I am sitting at my computer playing Mob Wars on Facebook and pretending to work on a website, Number Two begins a half-hearted whimpering as he sits in the walker. I say something high-pitched and hopefully soothing at him, to no effect. I am just debating whether to get him out and try to put him in for a nap when I observe the devil meander casually over to the basket, all nonchalant, and peer into it with an expression of deepest puzzlement, as if trying to decide which wine goes best with Cheerios and Pasta Pick-Ups. After a good while, she appears to have arrived at a conclusion of some sort, and thrusts her arm with great vehemence straight into the pile, until she is being poked in the armpit by the rim of the basket and so can reach no further. Her brow furrows.

The devil will not be thwarted by mere woven rattan.

She swirls her arm around, but not very well, and whatever she is attempting to achieve, she clearly does not, because she pulls her arm out again with a decided lack of good grace and gives the side of the basket a swift kick. She smiles thinly at the crunching noise this elicits, pushes at it again with the sole of her foot, I assume just to let it know that just because she's smiling, doesn't mean it can get away with anything while SHE'S in charge, and drops down abruptly onto her bum with a bemused "Huh."

She glances over at me and I quickly look back at my monitor. The devil hates being watched.

Several minutes pass, during which time she alternately pokes at the basket, glances at Number Two fussing in his walker, and repeats "Huh." Finally, she jumps up, grabs one of the handles, and begins dragging the full basket across the living room.

Let me remind you that her father issues a soft grunt when he moves this thing, and he's a Merchant Marine who throws massive iron chains around the deck of a ship for recreation. I have no idea how she is accomplishing this, but I am rapidly coming to a terrifying conclusion:

The devil has the strength of ten men.

I am watching openly now, more out of awe than curiosity, although I am wondering just where she intends to go with her new luggage. I'm also wondering, given her newly-displayed feat of strength, whether I'll be able to stop her if I don't like her destination. At this point her father looks up at me from the couch, and, seeing my expression, follows my gaze toward our intrepid explorer as she drags the basket across the carpet like the world's smallest Sherpa on the world's lowest Himalaya. She tugs it across the entire room, a good 15 feet, until she reaches her father's feet, at which point she delivers what is clearly a command, albeit an unintelligible one: "Gaish!"

He looks at me questioningly. I shrug.

"You heard her," I say. "Gaish!"

He shoots me a look of unmistakable hostility, then looks down at her and says "What, honey?"

Imperiously, and with ill-concealed impatience, she repeats herself: "GAISH!!"

Oh boy.

As if giving voice to the tiny flutter of fear growing in my mind (I, after all, will be the cleaner-upper if this degenerates into crying and puking), Number Two begins wailing. I sympathize privately, but it does no one any good to demonstrate fear to the devil. She glances in my direction. I remain stalwart.

"GAISH."

Her tone indicates she is NOT KIDDING, and as I cast my mind around for something - ANYthing - with which to distract her from this single-minded pursuit of... well, of whatever it is she's pursuing so single-mindedly, her father - bless the man! - tips the basket on its side, spilling it out like fruit from a cornucopia, and offering her the full range of its contents for her perusal. She favors him with a brisk business-like nod and plunges in with great determination, grabbing out from among the gazillion expensive doodads a simple green plastic ring from one of those stacking toys.

I am non-plussed. That? All this fuss for THAT?

I probably would have pondered this oddity much longer, except at this point, Number Two graduates from whiny grumbles to a full-blown tantrum. I rise from my chair, intending to pick him up out of his chair, when I am stopped cold by an unprecedented sight:

The devil is handing him the green ring.

He grins. SHE grins. He puts up one fatsy baby hand and she leans into his reach, resting her cheek momentarily in his open palm, says, "Awwww," pats him lightly on the head, and toddles away...

... and slaps Number One, who has the misfortune of being in her way, resoundingly across his bare upper arm. She grins when he squeals in protest.

Ah, yes. Business as usual.