Comments (1) 6 year-old son out of the blue at dinner last night while eating cherries for dessert:
“Why did George Bush chop down a cherry tree?”
(The many possible responses that suddenly filled my mind are not publishable here since I don’t “do” politics on my blog, but I have been laughing to myself about it all day!)
My second grade daughter came home from school the other day with her reading and writing homework. Part of the homework was to write three sentences about what she wants to do when she grows up…or if she doesn’t know what she personally wants to do, then what some other grownup that she knows does. Did the teacher REALLY CARE what she wrote about?? NO! Obviously, he just wanted to see three coherent sentences!!
Ah ha, but you must understand that my oldest daughter is a Drama Queen (DQ for short). And not just any kind of DQ, she is a Perfectionist DQ. She has inherited all my “best” traits.
According to family legend, this particular daughter has been sent down to curse me for the Oscar winning performance given by “moi” when I was probably about my daughter’s age and had just gotten my tonsils out. I put on quite the show of theatrics and emotion, refusing to eat or drink for days. Goodness, it was so great that even I remember it!
My one-child performance was finally brought to a grinding halt by my no-nonsense physician-father who threatened me with an IV if I didn’t start eating and drinking ASAP. And wouldn’t you know it, I was CURED. Immediately. Completely. Sore throat? What sore throat?
Anyhow, back to my daughter who is way worse than I ever was. By the way, I know that she really IS worse than me because this fact is unanimously agreed upon by all family members who were direct witnesses to my Oscar winning moment. So let’s return to her writing assignment.
She didn’t know what she wanted to be. (Sob, sob, sob) And she didn’t want to write about Daddy. (Sob sob, sob) Didn’t want to write about Auntie. (WAIL! WAIL! Sob, sob, sob) Didn’t want to write about Pop Pop. (Hand on the forehead, WAIL, WAIL, sob, sob, sob).
After a careful explanation about how her teacher was really not expecting a Pulitzer Prize-winning three sentence chef-d’oeuvre, I made the mistake of saying:
“Well, what about me? What do I do all day?”
My daughter stopped sobbing and looked at me with an expression that said that she was completely perplexed that I would ever ask such a question.
Her response:
“Nothing.”
Yes. I do NOTHING all day long. My 7 year-old daughter is finally on to me. I lie on the sofa and take naps. I take long, luxurious baths with expensive French bath salts. I drink very old Bordeaux while reclining in the sun on the back deck.
Yes. The laundry does itself. Groceries magically materialize in the fridge and the pantry. Meals make themselves. Beds make themselves. The pets feed themselves. The house tidies itself. The litter boxes scoop themselves. The car drives the children to and from school by itself. The garden weeds and waters itself. The bills pay themselves. Cat vomit magically flies off the carpet back into the cat. And of course the baby changes and disposes of her own dirty diapers (don’t all babies do that?).
Admittedly, none of what I do now is very exciting to a child, or to anyone for that matter. But I did have quite an adventurous life pre-momhood, and my daughter knows that! I had kind of thought she might want to write about having a Mom who can fly a plane for example.
But no. All that is forgotten. Mom is just the dreary boring old thing that drones on about picking up the toys and doing the homework. The automaton. The background noise. The “snow” on our no-channel TV. The Nothing.
Overheard this evening:
5 year-old son (5): “I would like to tie 18 balloons to my winkie and float into the sky.”
My husband (Dad): “Would you really want to be dragged up into the sky by your winkie????”
5: (thoughtful)
Dad: “What if it fell off?”
5: “Well, then I wouldn’t be able to pee.”
Dad: “Well, I guess we all get dragged through life by our winkies.”
5: “If it fell off, I wouldn’t be able to think!”
I learned two things from this conversation:
1) My 5 year-old has life figured out already!
2) It is no wonder that my brain cells are dying off one by one.
My sister has a cockatiel who rings like a telephone and then, putting his foot up to his ear (I am not making this up), says “Hello?”
Last night I was cooking dinner when I overheard my 6 year-old daughter, who was on the sofa with a book, saying “Now [4 year-old brother], I really need some alone time. You never let me have time for myself!” (I am not making this up either).
Gee, I wonder where she heard that? Do I say that kind of thing a lot? Probably. I like “alone time” and I don’t get much of it anymore. Does my sister talk on the phone a lot? Well, certainly enough for her cockatiel to have noticed!
The point is that children, like parrots, imitate what they hear. That is a scary realization. If I am being “less than mature” and pouty because I want “my alone time,” how can I be surprised when my children are “less than mature” and pouty because they want another story and it is 8PM on a school night.
My baby girl says “yeah” instead of yes. I guess I say “yeah” a lot instead of yes too. Among the first words of my two oldest was “actually,” used grammatically correctly. Actually, never until then, did I actually realize that I say “actually” a lot.
It is hard being a parent and having to set a perfect example 24 hours a day. Sometimes, I just want to pick my nose. There. I said it. Online, for the world to read. It is up to you to decide if I want to “literally” pick my nose (don’t worry, I won’t post photos), or figuratively pick my nose.
So…parents beware. Pick your nose in private only. And make sure that your most daring cuss word is “actually,” otherwise your child’s preschool teacher will have a good laugh!
Parrot photo thanks to morguefile.com and photographer lightfoot. Nose-picker photo thanks to morguefile.com and photographer David Kitchenham (www.photomime.co.uk).
“Mom, I was just thinking about chinchillas and wondering if they are nocturnal. I think they are.”
- My 6 year-old, 1st grade daughter on the way to school today (totally “out of the blue”)!
(I checked, yes they are.)
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