It's a good question, Charlie Brown

A: "Mumma, why does Charlie Brown always wear that same outfit? Like, every single day?"

"Hmmm, good question baby. I'm not really sure."

A: "Well, I hope he has Tide stain stick with him. Or else that outfit would get pretty dirty."

"You are right, that would get pretty dirty huh?"


A: "I don't even get to wear my undies two days in a row! That is gross Momma. I would never wear something every day in a row like that."

(a few moments of silence....and then:)


A: "...and also Momma, why does Peppermint Patty sound like a man?"

Lo mein plus kiddos equals:

"Gavin, please stop putting noodles in your ears!"

(giggles from the peanut gallery)

"Ava, stop putting noodles in your ears too"

(more giggles)

"Ava, please stop putting noodles in Gavin's ears."

(uproarious laughter from the two scheming siblings)

"Ok, will everyone please refrain from putting any sort of noodles in anyone's ears?! PLEASE?!"



Ahhh, how much dinnertime conversation has changed at our house over the past 5 years  :-)

Love it.

Oh, by the way Mom...

"I don't need you to zipper me up anymore!"

And with those eight seemingly benign words resonating in my head, instantaneous tears of  Maternal pride began streaming down my cheeks.

Then, the following display of proof unfolded right in the middle of my living room:

I did it!

Motherhood is a crazy thing. I've spent five exhausted years silently hoping for the day when I wouldn't have to tie her shoes, zipper her coat, button her pants, brush her teeth for her, cut her food at dinner, etc...

And now that she can proudly display a big, bold check mark next to all of these things (and so many more...), I'd suddenly give anything to have those days back.

I suppose it's just another reminder to savor each and every moment of these amazing & fleeting years, because before I know it she will be telling me, "I passed my driving test Mom! You don't need to drive me to school anymore!" 


So for today, I will smile, cheer for her big accomplishment, and tell her how extraordinarily proud I am of her with a massive display of hugs and relentless smooches on the cheek.

And I am proud of her. Each & every step of the way-- from moments as big as first steps, first words, and first ballet recitals, to the little ones like these.

So incredibly proud.


Zipper away, Aves.

Zipper away!

Wednesdays, dalmations, and diapers-- Oh My!

Wednesdays are our marathon days here at the D residence.

Allow me to illustrate.

7:00-7:45am, everyone up, dressed, ready for breakfast. Breakfast around 8:00-- usually something super simple like those fun yogurts-in-a-tube and toast. 8:15, tooth-brushing frenzy in the bathroom. Once all teeth have passed inspection, (and numerous globs of sparkly, neon blue toothpaste have been removed from the sink, cabinet, bathroom floor, and little faces,) coats, shoes, socks, hats, etc... are put on and it's time to hit the road. 8:30am, Daddy leaves the house with A, drops her at school, and heads to work. Simultaneously, I leave the house by 9:00 with little G to get him to baby music class by 9:30. (this only after I've put his shoes and socks on for the nine-hundredth time, since he likes to take them off & hide them these days. ) Once at music class, we spend a glorious hour singing, dancing, banging drums, shaking egg maracas etc... until it is time to go. We head out to complete our Wednesday errands and grab lunch before heading to pick A up from school by 12:45pm. From school, we head directly to dance class (no passing Go/collecting $200) where A proceeds to sashay, tondue, and shuffle-ball-change her way through an hour and fifteen minutes of a pink, frilly, tutu-filled class with her little ballerina comrades. After dance, we usually head to the bank for our Wednesday banking needs and, only once this is complete-- we finally head home.

Which means, we aren't usually home until almost 4pm.

That's right folks, almost an eight hour day out of the house, schlepping to and fro various kid-oriented activities in my sweet, sweet Mamamobile. (After having it for 2 years now, and I still refuse to call it a station wagon.)

It's a loooooooooooooong day to be out & about with two kiddos, and no naptime. (Repeat: NO NAPTIME.)

But we do it, every single Wednesday, and by endearingly referring to it as our "Marathon Day" (as opposed to a more derogatory choice, i.e. "brutal Wednesday" or "sucky Wednesday") we get through it with smiles on our faces.

(usually.)

And then there was...today.

Oy.

Today, when breakfast ran late. And those "convenient" little tubes-o-yogurt ended up in little G's hair, ears and nostrils before 8:30 am, necessitating a wardrobe change before we'd even accomplished anything substantial.  And A's socks were too "bumpy" under her leggings (?!) and a meltdown of princess proportions ensued. And we forgot to brush teeth altogether. (don't judge, it happens to the best of us on occasion...) And she was a late for school & missed morning snack. Today, where the second I turned my car on, the electronic digital dash thingamajiggy (I like to use the technical terms, clearly) screamed "LOW TIRE! LOW TIRE!", convincing me that my tire would blow out at some point unless I drove under 25mph at all times today, and swerved to avoid every single pot hole/tree branch/pebble/gum wrapper in the road.  Ahhhh today....where most of the other cherubs from little G's music class had nasty, juicy, and eerily similar coughs, so I spent the entire hour more preoccupied with sheltering him from the barrage of contaminated raindrops-o-saliva than reveling in my egg-maraca skillz. (fo' sho.) Today, where we got trapped at the post office behind an (adorable, but sloth-paced) ninety-something-year old couple who bought a book of stamps and subsequently proceeded to peel & stick each stamp on about five hundred pieces of mail, perfectly & straight, all while having a conversation with seemingly the only teller at the post office. Today, where little G had EIGHT poopy diapers  in a five hour time period (poor guy must have eaten something that didn't agree), and I was at the mercy of the two square inches of the Mamamobile trunk (damn you, third row seats!) to try and change a squirmy, flailing, preoccupied, squirmy, poopy...(did I mention, squirmy?) toddler. (sidenote, my car smelled just delightful for the better part of the day.) Today, where I spent the majority of A's dance class in the parking lot changing more poopy diapers, and wasn't there when A came out (with the other ballerinas) into the waiting room to invite the Mommies into the studio to watch their little performance...and started sobbing because she thought I had left her. ("No honey, Mommy's just elbow-deep in your little brother's poop...AGAIN! I'll be right in!!!")

Oh yes friends, it was just one of those days.

Needless to say, by 3:30 when dance class was over, I had vetoed the typical Wednesday banking obligations and decided we just needed to get home. (especially since little G's bum was stinky yet again, and I was completely out of diapers.)

As we pulled out of the Dance studio parking lot, little G sucking his thumb and quietly looking out the window, it occurred to me that this was the first moment of quiet I'd had all day. However this quiet moment was extremely short-lived, and almost as immediately as it had begun, it was interrupted by a little voice in the back seat.

"Momma, you know what?"


"What honey?" I asked her, peering at her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

She let out a loud, dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes, and threw her hands out, palms up.

"There's just NEVER a dalmation in our house, huh Momma!?"


"Oh, honey, you know we'd love to get you a puppy, but Daddy's allerg--"


"No, Momma!" she said, chuckling. "I mean, there's never a DAL-MATION in our house. Right?"


"Honey, I don't know what you are talking abo--"


And before I could even finish the sentence, I burst into hysterical laughter. I put the car in park, in the middle of the parking lot, and just laughed. And laughed, and laughed. My laughter was met with copycat giggles from the back seat. Smiling, silly, un-brushed tooth giggles.

"What, Momma? What is so funny about that? You say it all the time when we have crazy days like this, you say, 'Ay, ay ay, there's never a dalmation in our house' "


"Honey," I replied, my cheeks aching from laughter at this point as I struggled to get the rest of my words out.

"There's never a DULL MOMENT. That's what Mom says when we have crazy days like this. Never a dull moment!"


She burst into hysterical laughter as she realized that her dalmation statement was a bit... off.

"Ooopsie!" she giggled, clearly feeling a bit embarrassed about this little mishap...




And all of a sudden, everything about this Wednesday was just plain perfect.  :-)

The implications of 6 inches (get your minds out of the gutter!)

Once upon a time, there was a haircut.
Six inches chopped off, just like that. Six inches of the gorgeous, long, golden brown hair that she'd spent 18 months patiently growing out--

gone in under fifteen minutes. Six inches, instantly swept up off the salon floor and sent into the mysterious graveyard of cut-off hair in a slumping black trashbag in the corner. This because I (naively) allowed my 5-year old to chop off all under the pretense that she "just wanted short hair now, Momma!" Boy, was I ever wrong *sigh!*



It all began Friday when we took a trip to the salon, a Mommy-daughter date of sorts (which is a rarity these days, since her baby brother's birth over a year ago.)  And like a very grown-up girl, she took a seat on the salon chair and politely proclaimed to the hair-dresser:

"I don't just want a trim, I want a lot of hairs cut off! Like, really short, all the way up to here! (pointing to just beneath her ears) Is that okay Momma? I just really want short hair now, okay?"

Not wanting to impose upon my tenacious Preschooler's right to freedom of expression, I agreed to her request, reminding her that it is indeed her hair and that if she would like it short, then short it is. The hairdresser performed the obligatory reminders- "Just so you know, you won't be able to put it into a pony-tail for a while. Or a long braid. Or pigtails - Is that ok?" 

Not the least bit intimidated by these scare tactics, Ava responded, "That's ok, it will grow back one day. I would please like it short!"

A little taken aback by such an unwavering response from a five-year old, the hairdresser smiled to herself, picked up the scissors, and agreed, "Ok then, Miss Ava- short it is!"

Twenty minutes later....

 (plus a little fancy-pants action with the blow dryer and some tres expensive, goopy hair "product,")  it was over. And my little girl had a whole new look.

An absolutely adorable, big girl look:

A look that left her feeling confident, pleased, and glowing all over. The rest of the afternoon (which, incidentally, we spent at the mall in true Mommy-daughter-date style,) I kept catching her secretly peering at herself in reflections and mirrors, smiling big & wide and commenting on just how much she loved her new 'do.  She was obviously very happy and there was even a notable new bounce in her step. I was thrilled that something as simple as hair had truly made her day!

The rest of the afternoon at the mall unfolded more or less predictably, with numerous pleas to "pretty pretty please??" buy her a new stuffed animal, toy, or pair of shoes. (sidenote, excellent timing that Mr. Claus himself was already perched at the mall for the season, because aforementioned pleas were met with a "Not today, but we can certainly stop by and let Santa know that it is on your list" from me.) She did ultimately find a super boring navy blue jumper (similar to the private school dress-code jumpers)  that, beyond my comprehension,  she just had to have.  And since it was already reduced and we had a coupon, we bought it. (never too young to learn smart shopping habits!)

One thing I did, however, find a bit strange during our shopping spree, was her burning desire to find a hat.

"Honey, you already have two new winter hats, we don't need any more." I told her firmly.

"But Momm-mmmma," she implored, "not a winter hat. A...different kind. Like, maybe, a pretty yellow-ish, light brown-ish hat, with a red ribbon tied around it? Can we look?"


I supposed there was no harm in humoring her with a search for such a bizarre unique request, so we ventured for an hour and forty-five minutes around the mall, in and out of every single hat/accessory store. At the end of the day, our search ended fruitlessly and my exhausted, sad little girl begged me to "please order one online later on?"


I told her that we'd ask Santa.

She yawned, and agreed.

-----FAST-FORWARD TWO DAYS-----

All day yesterday I noticed that she was speaking to her stuffed animals, her dolls, and even to her father & me, in a British accent (!?!) To boot, she spent most of the weekend referring to her baby brother as "Lord Covington."

When I finally confronted about this, she responded in said accent "Oh, no worries Mu-tha. I'm just dreadfully silly and thought it funny to speak like this! Now will you please bring me some tea, Ms. Clavel?"


And that's when it hit me.


Oh.
my.
goodness.


Similar to the last 4 minutes of The Usual Suspects, the events of the past 72 hours began to flash before my eyes.

The impulsive hair cut.

The navy blue jumper.

The quest for the hat.

The British accent....

and now, calling me Miss Clavel!?!


At  that exact moment, it became abundantly clear that my sweet little preschooler was actually trying to transform herself into the newest little idol in her life:

That's right, folks. Ava Lee was trying to become... Madeline.


I immediately asked her if the reason she chopped her hair off was to look like Madeline.

"But of cou-hhse, Mutha!" she responded

"And that's why you wanted the hat too? And that's why you've been talking in this silly voice?!"


She giggled. "Well, or COU-HHSE it is, dah-ling! Didn't you know that?"


Nope, sure didn't. I had no idea! 

I was completely, utterly duped...by my very own five year old.


 Clearly, hindsight is 20/20 and it all made perfect sense in retrospect. We had picked up the original Madeline DVD from the $5.00 section at Target two weeks prior, and she'd probably watched it ten times since. It quickly became her new favorite movie, and obviously Ms. Madeline herself quickly became a beacon of coolness and fashion in Ava's eyes.

In conclusion, I think it is adorable, and simultaneously impressive, that my little girl was secretly able to devise such an elaborate plan in her mind, (and almost pull it off too!) If nothing else, it is certainly a noteworthy entry for the baby book and a story she'll be able to tell her own daughter one day, and laugh about.

And lesson learned on this end, next time she expresses a sudden urgency to "trim" six whole inches from hair on a random Friday afternoon, perhaps I should investigate the underlying reasons.  :-)

Kids are colorblind

Tonight as I tucked Ava into bed, I asked her what the best part of her day was.

She looked up at the ceiling, giggling. "It was definitely at school, when *Andrew was doing his show and tell about Buzz Lightyear and he got up and started doing a funny dance, saying 'To infinity...and beyond!' That was definitely the best part of my day, Momma! Andrew is so silly!"

Now, although Ava started at a new school just a few weeks ago, it certainly didn't take me long to put faces to the names of the other eight children in her small Pre-K classroom.  In fact, I'm sure I could name all of them with 99.9% accuracy if they lined up in a row. Ava, however, doesn't know this little fact. And so, with my own knowledge that "Andrew" is the only African-American child in her classroom, I decided to conduct a little pseudo-experiment on children & race, right there in bed.

"Hmmm, I don't think I remember who Andrew is-- can you remind me?"

"Sure Momma...ummm, he is the one with....the dinosaur shirt. Remember?"

"No honey, I don't. Tell me more about him?"

"Well...he always brings fruit roll-ups for lunch! And he likes to do the art station. Oh, and he has brown eyes, just like me!"

"What else?"

"Well...I don't know if it is nice to say this about Andrew..."

(I assume this is the part where she will awkwardly say something about his skin being a different color than her own..)

"It's okay honey, what do you want to tell me?"

"Well Momma...he sometimes has boogies in his nose!"

I smile and give her a big hug. "Ohhh, now I remember. He's the one who eats fruit roll-ups, and sometimes has boogies in his nose. So that's Andrew!"

"Yeah, Momma! Exactly!" she smiles, proud that she has conveyed to me which classmate she is referring to.

I give her a major squeeze until she tells me that my hug is squishing her, and a final smooch on the forehead.

"Night, Momma!" she says to me, snuggling up under her covers and closing her eyes.


I leave her bedroom and close the door. And immediately think to myself, if the rest of the world just start perceiving other human beings with the same innocence, acceptance, & color-blind lenses as my 5-year old, what a beautiful world it would start to become.

Should I be concerned? Maybe a lil' bit?

I mean, obviously, everyone loves a good sock monkey...but pink? That's your sister's, little buddy!  Oy. Santa will have to make a (large, bold, high-lighted) mental note to bring you a more socially appropriate brand-spankin' new, blue sock monkey of your very own for Christmas this year. Especially since, over the past few days, pink sock monkey has had to accompany us everywhere. Grocery store, doctor's office, music class, lunch, naptime, diaper changes, carseat-- you name it, pink sock monkey is there, hanging onto that cute little neck of yours for dear life. 

But until then, I've gotta admit...

...you look pretty darn cute in pink  :-)