Monthly Archives: August 2011

Barbie’s Problems

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Liz doesn’t play with Barbies like other kids.  First of all, they live in the bathtub.  Secondly, they act out scenarios demonstrating the awful, morbid results of neglecting the safety rules.  Here’s an example:

A little girl was found down at the bottom of the swimming pool.  According to her big sister, “She taked too many medicines and it made her brain sick, so she fell in and she can’t swim because she didn’t pass the Minnows class, so she drowned.”
 
The lifeguards dragged her out of the pool, and she was transported to the hospital (“…but the ambulance had to take a detour because there was a tornado and it knocked down a tree, and the EMTs and paramedics were really frustrated but they didn’t say any swear words…”  proof that Liz has never worked on an ambulance).  She was seen by Dr. Kickyfeet, who can’t perform surgery or communicate with anyone because he is a duck.  Dr. Kickyfeet took over CPR until more doctors showed up.
 
The little girl’s big sister and her moms arrived at the hospital.  The big sister stayed and helped with the surgery (because really, why not?) while the moms went to Target.  One mom got a paci for the little girl, so she could sleep.  The other mom got a lock for the medicine cabinet.  Then they high-fived, kissed each other, and went back to the hospital.
 
Dr. Kickyfeet, speaking through a translator who speaks duck, said that the little girl would be in surgery for two weeks, and then she’d have to stay home and couldn’t go swimming for a very long time.  The little girl’s moms were happy, and the big sister proposed to Dr. Kickyfeet.  He said yes.

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A Bunch of One Liners

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Mom, making a mess is okay.  Especially when it’s your kid, and she’s making a very big mess that she loves.

Kiwi birds got their names because their butts look like kiwi fruits.

I don’t HAVE a mute button!  You know why?  Because I don’t.

It’s okay, Mom.  I know it hurts, but you can get me some milk and a snack.

Boys always forget to wear stripes.  They should ask their girlfriends what to wear.

Sorry, but my mom buyed that dog so you can’t have her.  But it’s okay, because you can pet her sometimes.

I have a great idea!  You should put really spicy stuff on your tomatoes, so then you can like them!

Here’s your shopping list, Mom:  A cake, some toys, and a hoodie for you that doesn’t say [company name] on it.

Hey Mom, I think we should turn our house into an animal shelter.  We could get a lot of animals, and then people could come in and look at them!

It’s too long until I get to be twelve!  Hmph!

Mom, when I’m done with swimming lessons, I should go to the play area while you relax in the hot tub.  It will make you all warm and mellow and happy.  But you have to wear a swimsuit with a bikini top, because that’s what big grown-up moms wear to the pool.

I will think the Easter Bunny hided the eggs, but really you did hide them, and we pretend that it’s the Easter Bunny.

Sometimes the Steelers win, and sometimes the Packers win.  To win you have to catch the ball and do a touchdown, but the ball isn’t a circle, it’s a oval.  I wish one of the teams was wearing blue.

Penguins are dangerous and they bite.  You have to stay out of the penguin patch.  A penguin patch is a group of penguins.

The Glitter Incident

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There’s glitter all over the living room. :facepalm: Once again, lack of foresight on my part results in a *really* good time for Liz.

Liz has the cold from hell, so we’ve been taking it easy at home. I’ve been kind of stuck as to what else she could do around the house besides watch annoying kid TV, unloading the toybox and scattering its contents everywhere, and whining. Liz showed me a craft she made, a “popsicle” made from a craft stick, construction paper, and glitter. She made it at daycare, and wanted to make another one at home. Fair enough.

We got craft sticks and glitter at Target, came home, and got started. I figured there would be some glitter on the table, and maybe on the floor by the table. I can deal with that.

I SEVERELY UNDERESTIMATED LIZ’S GLITTER POWER.

We did the craft, made yummy looking sparkly paper popsicles, got glue and glitter all over the table, and so on. We made glittery umbrellas, masks, puppets, and so on…yeah, kind of a mess.

Then we were done. I got on the computer, Liz went to the couch to watch Yo Gabba Gabba…and then this happened.

Liz: I’m making some magical fairy soup. It has magic, and fruits, and fairy dust, and it’s yummy.
Me: ?! Fairy dust?
Liz: Just a little. [pours glitter into her bucket of blocks] But you know how we could make it even more magical? ADD MORE FAIRY DUST! See? I put more sparkles in. And now I have to mix it. I think I’ll put some sparkles in my hair, too.
Me: :facepalm:
Liz: Oh, look. My little ponies are riding in my bug car. Maybe they need some magic. [dumps glitter in toy VW bug]

The entire living room is covered in glitter. Liz, who fell asleep on the couch at 7:00 last night, is covered in glitter too. I’m sure I’ll be finding glitter months from now. I’m glad she had fun, but from now on, the glitter stays at daycare.

Did I mention the glitter on the cats and the dog? The red glitter looks fabulous on the black cat.

Designated Drivers are Rude

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The other day, I went to a family gathering at a Mexican restaurant, and wanted some margaritas.  I suggested that my Twin Bro could drive me home.  Liz had kittens:

Liz:  MOM!  No!  He can’t drive your car!

Me:  Why not?

Liz:  Because that would be RUDE.

Me:  What are you talking about?

Liz:  It is your car.  You own that car.  You have to drive it, otherwise that’s very rude and mean.

Me:  O.o  !!!  Well, how about this:  I’ll ask him very politely, and give him the option to say no.  If he agrees to drive my car, I’ll say thank you.  Is that okay?

Liz:  Yeah.  But it would be better if you drived, because it’s your car.

(After I asked very politely, Twin Bro agreed to drive my car.  ¡Salud!)

Where do babies come from?

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Liz is fascinated with babies.  Of course she is, they’re cute.

She asked, “Mom, why was I in your belly?”

I told her that when babies are too little to live on their own, they stay in a special organ called a uterus that is made to grow babies. In there, the baby gets all the nutrients and all the protection she needs from Mom.

Then she asked, “Well, how do they get out?”

I told her, “That can happen two ways. When you were born, the doctor cut me open and took you out, because you were very sick. Most babies come out of mom’s vagina, one of those girl parts we talked about.”

Liz said, “Oh, ok. I think that would hurt less than getting cutted. Did you know that T (cousin) is a big baby and K (other cousin) is a little baby? But they’re big enough to get born.”

More recently, she’s been asking some real headscratchers:

Why did you get me as a baby and not any other baby?

Why am I a girl and not a boy?

How does each baby get its own right voice?

How do babies remember to get hair on their heads and on their eyebrows?  How come none of them forget to get their hair?

I can deal with the awkward questions, but…um…is there a geneticist in the house?

I have a broken foot

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I broke my foot at the end of July.  Liz has seen me on crutches, in a walking cast, and now, in a horrendously ugly orthopedic support sandal that is to be worn with a sock.  Of course she has something to say about this.

I’m using the car that used to belong to my mom.  It still has her handicapped plates. Liz is baffled as to why I don’t park in the handicapped spaces at the store. (because I’m not handicapped, of course) The other day, this happened…
Liz: Mom. What number of handicapped are you?
Me: What do you mean? A percentage? A one to ten scale?
Liz: I. Mean. What. Number.
Me: I don’t know…what number means all the way handicapped?
Liz: 52. But you can’t use that one, because you’re not all the way handicapped.
Me: Ok. Let’s see here…I’m ambulatory, I’m fit, I’m healthy, but I have a broken foot. I’d give myself a three right now.
Liz: Then you have to get new license plates that have a handicapped and a three, to show that you’re only three handicapped.

I came home today without the cast , but with an orthopedic support sandal that is hideously ugly. Bonus: I have to wear a sock with it. I showed it to Liz, and she said, “MOM. That is not fashion. You can’t wear socks with your sandals because that’s not how you do it.” She decided that it would be okay to wear socks with sandals if they were silly socks, though.

She also likes to give me very stern warnings about high heels and platforms. She’ll see a pair of heels (like the ones I broke my toe wearing a few months ago!), or one of the walking clogs that I fell off of most recently, and she’ll say, “If you ever want to wear shoes like this again, you have to be super careful. You have to look down and pay attention or else you’ll get hurt again.” Either that, or she’ll see a picture of high heels, and then cover them up and say, “Mom, there’s some shoes you can’t wear. They’re too dangerous for you.”

When Liz grows up

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Every once in a while, I ask Liz what she’d like to do when she grows up. I get lots of fun answers:

-Have lots of girl babies and stay home and play with them
-Own a candy store
-Work at an amusement park
-Be on TV all the time
-Be a paramedic
-Work at daycare (“So you’ll have to buy me more daycare clothing, Mom…”)
-Be a doctor
-Do lots of science

Today’s answer takes the cake, though. I asked her what she’d like to do when she grows up, and she said “I want to be Heidi Klum.” O.o ?!

I asked her to explain, and she said, “Because she gets to have a fashion show and be on Sesame Street and fly on airplanes a whole lot and do lots of fashion.”