An Open Letter From Your Friendly Neighborhood Elf



He's not impressed.

 Dear Friends and Family,

Another Tacky Sweater Party has come and gone.  While I am pleased that everyone presumably had an amazing time, I feel I would be remiss if I did not address certain behaviors that I, and my boss, find troubling. 

Despite the fact that my line of work does subject me to the high potential for injury from toddler maiming or falls from precarious perches, I do not, at present, have the need for an attorney.  Therefore, I must insist that you refrain from filling the cubbies on the Smith family advent calendar with your business cards.  I assure you, if the day comes when I need the assistance of C. Lee Davis, Jeffery L. Dickerson, Ryan G. Prescott, Suzanne T. Prescott, Carey Olson or Clay Seaton O'Daniel, I will know where to find you.  I always know where to find you.  In the meantime, I have no need for the business cards (or 9 business cards in the case of Mr. O'Daniel...you're an eager one) you so graciously left for me in the space generally reserved for the deposit of children's gifts.

Similarly, I am currently without the need of the services of one Amy M. Harrison.  As Santa pays me in leftover Christmas Cookies and Eggnog, I have no taxable income and no use for an accountant.  Thankfully the laws at the North Pole are flexible in that regard. 

As for the office furniture salesman and "Keith" working for Intelux, you have demonstrated excellent networking skills in having your cards delivered without (1) being present at the party, or (2) ever having met the Smiths before.  Santa likes to reward dedication to the job.  You can expect a little extra in your stocking this year.  Clever.  As a devious elf, I can appreciate that.

While I am thankful for your willingness to serve, I do ask, in the future, please do not make my job more difficult by unnecessarily crowding the calendar.  I'm a small elf.  Those cards are hard for me to dispose of.  Also, I must ask that you please conduct yourselves like adults in the future.  Crab risotto appetizers are meant to be eaten, not tossed at each other as in a middle school food fight, for some poor elf to pick up the next day.  Remember, Santa is watching.  Please, govern yourselves accordingly.

Sincerely,

Jacque-Jacque Le Elf

Child Observational Specialist, First Class

Life Imitates Art. Or Is It The Other Way Around?

I'm not sure she's a true artiste, but Ellie's drawings are definitely becoming more realistic.  Just last week she came home with this:

I asked her who was in the picture.  She says (with an exaggerated eye roll) "Mommy, of course it's you telling me 'no'!"  Well, of course.  How silly of me.

Thanksgiving Tidbit: Indians STILL Wear Hairbows

As was discussed last Thanksgiving: Things the History Books Don't Tell Us, historians and social anthropologists have discovered that Native Americans displayed bowhead tendencies. The historical evidence is mounting:

2009 Thanksgiving Feast:

Same Little Indians, one year later:

There is a rising concern among experts that the bows are seemingly growing.  We can only hope that this trend does not continue.  Any further increase in bow size could have massive cultural and ecological ramifications.

Rip Van Harry

Harry caused us a little concern last night.  He generally takes a late afternoon nap, sometimes not waking up until just before dinner, around 6.  Nanny Melissa tells us he went down at 3.  We're expecting wakeage around 5/5:30.  Dinner time came and went (although there was no dinner yet as I had made up my mind to concoct a lasagna recipe completely and totally from scratch, noodles and all) without a sound.  We let him snooze. 

Dinner actually hit the table at 8pm (did you read the part about totally from scratch--marinara, bechamel--on a Tuesday!).  Not a peep.  At this point we know we have to make a call.  To wake him, or let it ride.  If we wake him at 8 he may not go back down until midnight.  If we don't, he may wake up at midnight.  Sort of a lose/lose.  Plus, he's going to be hungry when he finally rouses.  A hungry Harry is never, ever pretty.

I went the "never wake a sleeping baby" route, crossed my fingers, said a prayer and hoped Wes would take pity on me when he woke.  Being the good husband that he (usually) is, Wes did get up with him...when he finally decided to wake up and start playing in his crib at 6:15 a.m.  Fifteen hours and fifteen minutes after falling asleep he sat up, looked around his crib, and starting wailing on Baby Tad:

Not that he didn't deserve it.  That frog is irritating. 

Harry seemed no worse for wear.  In fact he was downright chipper this morning:

He says to me when Wes plops him in our bed, "hi ya ma ma, yeah uh-huh" which is meaty feet speak for morning lady, where's my breakfast?

Ding Ding! Here Comes the Fire Mobile!*

Ellie got to take a "walking" field trip to the Fire Station here on the Marietta Square yesterday. She was THRILLED that her daddy got to chaperone (not sure the feeling was mutual). The best part is, Daddy got pictures!

No, not this one:

But these:

She got to "ride" on the fire truck. 

She even got a fireman's hat and badge!

They learned from the guys at the fire station that fire trucks used to be pulled by horses.  BFF Mary Riley asked if they were winged, Pegasus horses, which would have made putting out fires a WHOLE lot cooler back in the day, but I think they shot that idea down.  Alas.

All in all an excellent field trip.

*With apologies to Maddox, creator of The Best Page in the Universe. http://maddox.xmission.com/.  I'm sure this is not the purpose for which he intended his work.  Beware, content is not fit for people without a sense of sick, inappropriate humor, or anyone under the age of 18, or anyone with a soul.

Everybody Say Cheese Yee-Ha!

She is definitely my child.  New outfit = insane mugging for the camera.  She was so excited about her new denim skirt that she wanted me to take a picture of her in it for her Daddy to send to him in Vegas.  She would NOT, however, just pose in a sweet, little girl fashion.  She insisted on saying "Yee-Ha" and when I begged her to say cheese so she wouldn't have a weird facial expression, she compromised by shouting "CHEESE YEE-HA" instead.  Here is the result:

Harry, by the way, refused to participate in this farce.  Mostly because he was too busy trying to climb into his high chair.  It was breakfast time.  He was not happy.

Speeding Cookies, Muddled Thoughts and Partial Blindness

Over the past week I have learned that Ellie can use the following phrases in their proper context:

1.  I can't resist (insert favorite food here; for Ellie it's Chicken Fried Rice);
2.  I can't stand (insert most hated food here; for Ellie it's Chicken Fried Rice mommy makes from scratch);
3.  THAT is ridiculous;
4.  I'm not budging on this (when asserting her position that we should eat Chicken Fried Rice for dinner); and
5.  My brain is just all mixed up.

She has also informed us that her mispronunciation of words is just as valid as the alleged correct pronunciation of words.  For instance, the restaurant known as Orient Express is actually Oreo Express.  After explaining what Orient means and linking it to her beloved fried rice, we figured she'd relent, but no.  "Actually, the food is very yummy, like an Oreo, so it's the Oreo Express, and besides, I like saying that more anyway, so it's ok for me to just say it that way."  Maybe next week will discuss the concept of "conclusory statements."

In other, completely unrelated news, I have been concerned Harry is not hitting his milestones.  At his 18 month checkup (29 lbs 10 ounces, 34 inches long, 92% in both) the nurse asked if he could point to and identify his body parts.  I said, "well, no."  She pursed her lips and then gave me an overly broad smile and said that it "was no big deal."  Obviously, I've been drilling him on the position of his eyes and ears and mouth and nose to absolutely no avail.

Until last night.  He starts touching my eye and saying very loudly "EYE."  I would totally overpraise him and get him to do it again and again and again.  Right up until he shoved his chubby little index finger about an inch deep in my eye socket.  It's safe for me to drive with no periperal vision in my right eye, isn't it?  Well, at least he's developing normally.

All That's Missing is a Big. Red. Bow.

This morning I was estatic to find myself able to wear this wonderful red, cropped Trina Turk jacket with large silver buttons that I bought nearly a year before I found out I was pregnant with Harry.  It has been hanging in my closet patiently waiting for the "baby" weight to skip town (can I use that excuse when he's a Freshman in college?).  I gave it whirl this morning since I was disgusted with all my other options, and it fit.  Woo Hoo!  Right?

This jacket has a history.  Thrilled though I was with the purchase, it admittedly has cost a little too much per wear.  Also, it tends to attract ridicule from my fashion critics.  The first day I wore it Wes choked on his coffee when I came out of the bedroom heading to work.  I got a sarcastic "nice jacket, where's the rest of it."  (Did I mention it's cropped?)  When I made it to the office, he had texted ahead to be sure my fashion nemesis number 1, a/k/a Sneaky Snake, was apprised of the situation.  As I walked by his office he guffawed and said, "oh, I get it.  Wes wanted me to ask if you got that jacket half off."  Ha. Ha. Ha. Still, it's damned cute.  Screw them.  Bow ties and seersucker pants do not make you experts on what is awesome.

So back to today.  Yippee.  It fits!  I'm about to finish up and slip on my red patent leather pumps when Ellie calls from downstairs to let me know she's "LEAVING FOR SCHOOL NOW, MOTHER!!!!!"  So I head to the top of the stairs to blow a kiss goodbye and tell her to behave (utter waste of breath).  She sees me and squeals "I.  LOVE.  YOUR.  OUTFIT."  "Why, thank you," I reply, very pleased that she has inherited at least some of my fashion sense.  "Mommy!  You look just like the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!"  Grrrrrrrrr.  Is it wrong that I wore it anyway?

Tiptoes and Pigsfeet

For those of you that doubted the veracity of my assessment as to the size of Harry's feet I give you Exhibit A:

Yes, I am also aware that his calves are larger than her thighs.  Meaty feet indeed.

Such a Pusher

Yesterday morning began with a typical Ellie/Mommy dispute.  I informed her we were turning off the tv to go downstairs and get breakfast before the nanny got there.  The exchange went something like this:

Ellie:  Ummm, no, I just want to stay in your bed and watch Super Why.
Me:  Too bad.  Let's go.
Ellie:  Super Why!
Me:  (Turning off tv) out of my bed, now.  Let's go.
Ellie: (Grudgingly getting out of the bed, in her sassiest voice possible) Daddy's right, you are fun pushing.
Me:  Fun pushing?  What is that?
Ellie: You push the fun away.
Me:  (Remembering last night's conversation) Oooooh, you mean fun poison?
Ellie: Yeah, that, you poison all the fun.

She ain't seen nothing yet.

Meaty Feet? More Like Side of Beef with a Slab of Bacon Feet.

So, yesterday we made our biannual trip to Coggins, the local shoe store.  Ellie's fitting and selecting went well.  Size 10.5, foot on the narrow side, plenty of choices in her size.  For the record, hot pink clogs are the absolute must have this season.  Harry's appointment with the "sizer" was an entirely different matter.

First, his foot has grown a full size since May...in length.  He is now a 5.5/6, not all that unusual for his age.  Here's where the problem comes in.  Our helper checks Harry's foot size with the stick and then says "uh...I think I need the other one.  We might have a width issue."  Sure enough, when he gets the metal device with the little slide on the side, Harry's foot fell about an inch west of EEE.  Thinking maybe I didn't know how to read it I asked the guy what it meant.  He says "lady, this kid's at least a quadruple E, maybe a quintuple, never seen anything like it.  He's going to need to special order."  Only shoes in the store that fit him were extra wide New Balance.  The adorable navy blue Keds with the rubber toe I had picked out?  He'd need a 7.5 to fit him in the width.  Yeah, looked like flippers, because I tried it. 

So, you might ask, just what does a special order, extra wide, saddle oxford in a child's size 6.0 cost you?  You do not want to know.  Even I was shocked.  I actually contemplated sending him to church in New Balance, but...no, I'm lying, I did not contemplate sending him to church in New Balance.  So I look at Harry and say "dude, you need to get a job...maybe as a plus sized baby model," to which he responded "Max...EIEIEI...NO, NO, ma ma."  You have to admit, he does have a way with words.

Snozzberries Taste Like Snozzberries

Have you ever seen a blue rasberry?  I'm pretty sure I haven't.  Nevertheless, until I was about 15 years old I thought rasberries were not just blue, but all out electric, not quite smurfy not quite Florida (of course that would be inedible-blech), glowing blue.  I assumed rasberry bushes must be one of the coolest fruit bearing objects on earth.  Bear in mind that raspberries weren't all that plentiful in beautiful downtown Appling, Georgia.  I'm quite certain I didn't see a real raspberry until cheerleading camp my sophomore year of high school where they had the exotic little morsels for sale at the Bolton Hall cafeteria at UGA.  I did not let on that I had no clue what those bumpy little maroon colored yummies were.

My confusion is understandable.  I first encountered "rasberry" flavor in the AstroPops they sold at the ball parks where my mom played softball (don't judge).  Otter Pops boasted a super yummy turquoise version of the flavor that was hawked by Monsieur Louie Bloo.  I think the vaunted Popsicle brand may have flirted with a blue pop at some point as well.  While a cool memory of childhood, I assumed that with all the focus on getting the additives and weird dyes out of our food the mythical blue raspberry would be a thing of the past.  Au contraire mon frere.

Blue, arguably raspberry flavored, frozen water is still alive and well and Harry is addicted.  He loves the things.  Last night he ate 2 whole pops by himself.  He squeezed every last bit of synthetic blue goodness out of those tubes and then reached over to yank approximately half of Ellie's Louie Bloo away from her. 

When all the blue yummy was consumed he sat there in his artifical dye stained clothes with his electric blue hands, mouth and thighs (that's right) and bemoaned the demise of Louie Bloo.

Ahhhhh, childhood.  Sunshine, playgrounds, and Blue Dye #1.  Good times.

And You Are...?

After living with an incredibly (I mean INCREDIBLY) verbal little girl for the past few years, I was warned to not expect such verbosity from the dude as it is apparently not in their natures to begin prattling on about everything they see as soon as they can string a couple of syllables together.  Therefore, I did not panic when he began uttering something very similar to da-da a few months ago.  I didn't get real upset when he began grunting EH-EE everytime his sister took yet another toddler toy away from him.  I even bragged about his prolific use of the word "ball" and his insistence on loudly and repeatedly indentifying every spherical object as a "ball" whenever one came into sight and shouting "ball" whenever one needed to be had right then and there--which is always.

So what that he hasn't said mama yet?  "M" is a hard letter to form; I mean much more difficult than a stupid "D" or "B".  Plus, why does he need to say it?  I pick him up before he really feels the need to get my attention anyway.  I mean, the "M" will come to him and then I won't get him to stop saying "mama", right?  Of course, he could decide instead to learn a few other words...like, maybe, Max.  Yeah, that's right.  Instead of saying "mama", instead of recognizing the woman that gave birth to you, dotes on you, changes your diapers and makes sure you have a never ending supply of sippy cup cocktails and chocolate goldfish crackers, maybe it'd be good to start talking to the freaking dog whose name sounds a whole lot like "ma" except with a freaking X on the end.  AN X!!!! Let's call for him first thing in the morning.  Maybe bang on the back door to get his attention and say his name over and over again.  Or even call him over to feed him a few of those crackers that woman whose name you forget keeps bringing you.  When she tries to get you to say "mama" for the bazillionth time just act like you don't hear her...she'll go away, or maybe she'll get you some more milk.

Or, what would be awesome would be to grab her dress sleeve while sitting at the restaurant after church on Sunday and tug really hard to get her attention, and when she turns to see what you want this time just grin and say "MAMA."

 

Are Sneaky Snakes Fundamentally Evil? Discuss.

Theological conversation as we are heading to school this morning:

E: Do we know any bad people?

Me: What do you mean?

E: I mean, do we know any people that are mean to other people or hurt other people?

Me: We make it a rule not to be friends with bad people.

E: (30 second pause)...We're friends with Mr. Darrell.

Me: (What I wanted to say) Touché.
(What I actually said) You think Mr. Darrell is bad?

E: He's a sneaky snake and he steals my french fries. He's been stealing my french fries for a long time and I know this because I remember him stealing my french fries when I was just a baby and I don't remember anything else from when I was a baby, but I remember that because he IS STILL STEALING MY FRENCH FRIES!

Me: So him stealing your french fries makes him bad?

E: Jesus said not to take things from other people, and all those french fries were mine and he took them. But, I don't think Jesus had french fries, so maybe he didn't mean you couldn't take french fries, and even if he did I don't think Mr. Darrell can help it. I think he just has to be a sneaky snake because he doesn't know any better. Like when Harry does something wrong and you tell me he can't get in trouble because he's too little and he doesn't know any better. If someone does something that's bad but they don't know any better then they can't get in trouble, so maybe sneaky snakes aren't bad, they're just sneaky because they can't help it.

Me: Yep.

Personally, I'm way more impressed with the sneaky snake capacity argument than the Chewbacca defense.

Even Bowheads Play Soccer...Sort of

Our first soccer season has come to a close, and in true 21st century fashion, everyone got a trophy, even those teammates that spent more time sobbing uncontrollably on the bench than actually playing soccer. And, it's not just any trophy, mind you, but a trophy engraved with each player's name sporting a squishy, rotating soccer ball dead center. See for yourselves:

That would be Ellie and BFF Mary Riley. For those of you not up on your anagrams/text message coding (I'm looking at you Grandpa), BFF means Best Friend Forever, although "forever" is a little strong as that best friend title can be stripped at anytime for offenses such as boyfriend stealing, inappropriate sharing skills, lunch table snubbing, and general "she's being mean to me" behavior. And, before you have to ask, bows are indeed part of the uniform. The bigger the better; therefore, Ellie wins, even though Mary Riley scored far more goals this season. Of course, it isn't hard to score more than zero*, but we learned early on that the game was a success if Ellie actually kicked the ball as opposed to merely twirling in circles somewhere near the goal. We got a recount of the actual "kicks" after every match, and by the end she was up to five an outing! Woo hoo! Most "playing time" was spent like this:

Nothing is more important than comparing monkey bar injuries, right? "Hey, 5...7... there's a soccer match going on behind you!" And by "match" I actually mean "magnet ball," wherein a mass of 3 and 4 year olds converge pell mell on one unsuspecting soccer ball en masse and proceed to kick the crap out of it in no discernible direction; ankles, shins, and field twirlers be darned.

In any event, Ellie was the recipient of the MVCP trophy, (Most Valuable Clover Picker, preferably done at mid-field while the rest of the game is raging on around you). All in all, worthy of the excellent naked dog from the Varsity lunch truck and an hour long romp in the bounce house. Go Red Rhinos!

*In all seriousness, MR kicked butt and seemed to at least understand that the goal was to, well, score a GOAL--no points deducted for scoring on your own goalie.

Ehhee, da-DEE and Whatshername

Blindside is talking. Well, more like pointing and grunting, but if you listen really, really hard and turn your head slightly to the left, the grunts become words. First thing in the morning Harry points at the stairs and grunts "da-DEE" (his voice is very deep which is unnerving after listening to Ellie's staccato vocals for three years). My guess is he mastered this particular skill set because Wes is head-breakfast-maker and chief-sippy-cup-filler, and is always downstairs fulfilling said duties when the chunky monkey wakes up. Combine this with the fact that I've been trying to teach him "Daddy" since he was four weeks old, as should every mother who would rather their child screech "DAAAAAA-DEEEEE" at four a.m. as opposed to the alternative, and I guess I shouldn't have my feelings hurt that the letter "m" is a nonexistent part of his guttural language.

Of course, he picked up sissy's name much quicker than that. On a whim earlier this week I pointed at Ellie and asked him "who's that?" He points and grunts. I say "that's Ellie." Immediately he says "Ehhee, Ehhee, Ehhee, Ehhee"! At first it was just excited recognition, now he's got the intonation down. For example, this morning Ellie pushes him out of the way to play his piano. He grunts, slams his hands down on the keyboard, shouts "EHHEEE" in his Meanest Joe Greenest voice and shoves it away from her. She starts crying, pulls it back, he starts wailing, mass hysteria, cats and dogs living together, and I finish drying my hair. Where's the mute button?

The Birds and the Bees and Cowgirl Boots

Conversation with Ellie du jour for your reading pleasure--

Me: Ellie, you need to stop drawing and let’s get dressed. We’re going to be late.
Ellie: But mommy, I need to finish this picture. It’s VERY important (super serious face)
Me: You can finish it this afternoon, let’s go.
Ellie: Uh, but mommy, I have to take it to school TODAY. It’s for my (wait for it) boyfriend!
Me: (30 second pause where we stare at each other)
Me: What’s a boyfriend?
Ellie: You know, a friend, but not like a friend that’s a girl.
Me: How is a boyfriend different than a girlfriend?
Ellie: Mommy, girls can’t have GIRLFRIENDS, they have friends that are girls.
Me: Ok, well how is a boyfriend different from that?
Ellie: They don’t wear bows in their hair.
Me: (whew, I can handle that) Ok, let’s put your picture in your bag, and….
Ellie: Oh, and I LOVE Nicholas; I only LIKE my friends that are girls.
Me: (crap)

She tells me in the car that she is sooooo happy she's wearing her cowboy boots because Nicholas really likes them. I've asked Wes to have a "chat" with this Nicholas during pick-up this afternoon.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's Super Harry!

It's ok. He's completely safe. I swear.

Did you Get All That, Because I'm not Going to Ask you Again?

I will not lie. As I check off the "agenda" in the church bulletin every Sunday I get more and more anxious as we draw closer and closer to Children's Church. I am not at all convinced that Ellie is going to dutifully walk down the aisle, sit on the alter steps, listen to the sermon, then proceed back to her classroom in an orderly fashion. She's done pretty good so far, very little in the way of outbursts, but still....

Enter Haiti. Late last week we received an email from one of our ministers requesting that we get our children involved in the Haitian relief effort. We were to explain what was going on in an age appropriate manner, discuss monetary support (i.e. how much of your piggy bank money are you willing to part with, in Ellie's case, $4 in quarters and a dollar bill, not bad, although she kept the twenty), and consider making a Health Kit. We worked on it. Made the kit. Discussed how much mommy and daddy were giving. The works. She stuns me on Saturday night when she asks if we can "pray to God about Haiti." She asks him to help them get their houses back and make them better if they got crushed. Very impressed.

Then comes Sunday morning. The minister tells them that a big tractor trailer is coming to Georgia to pick up the Health Kits. Suddenly I hear a familiar high pitched voice: "GEORGIA???!!!?! I LIVE IN GEORGIA." Mind you, I'm on the second to the last row, Marietta First United Methodist. She was loud. Yes, the minister says, I live in Georgia too, isn't that neat? What happened next I learned after the fact from a friend sitting close to the front.

The minister says "let's pray for the people of Haiti and the workers helping them." Ellie looks over at her friend on her left and says, "I don't need to do this. I prayed to God last night. Y'all go ahead though." Apparently the four front pews were shaking in hysterics. Ellie proceeds to hum "Alice the Camel" through the prayer and then skitters back to class.