B&W pics

Zoo trip & misc photos

Random elephant.

The Name Game

Somewhere along the line, Chris and I decided not to be the kind of parents that constantly call each other "Mommy" and "Daddy" in front of the kids. It wasn't a conscious decision, really. Just somewhat of a necessity for us.

Because while most people can refer to each other one way during the daytime hours, and another way in the evening....say....when the kids are at Grandma's and the restaurant has romantic lighting....Chris and I seem to be among the few that can't.

Nothing kills date night faster than a poorly timed "Kiss me, Daddy."

Of course, I still refer to myself as Mommy in front of the kids.

In the third person.

Habitually.

Seriously, I couldn't stop if my life depended on it.

But for a while now I've been calling my husband by his given name around the kids, and vice versa. Which has caused a minor head trip for Luke.

"You call Daddy 'Chris'?"

"Yes, Baby."

*pondering*

"Daddy call you 'Steph'?"

“Yes, Baby.”

*eyes crossing*

"You call Grandma 'Mom'?"

"Yes, Baby."

*ears steaming*

"You call Grandpa..."

"Yes, Baby."

Before Luke started getting confused by all these different labels, I hadn't really considered how complicated it must seem to him. My mother is "Mom" to me, "Jennifer" to Chris and my dad, and "Grandma" to Luke and Evie. And in a family get-together, the kids will hear every single version used!

I'm no exception; answering to "Mommy", "Steph", "Aunt Stephie", and even "Hey, jerk!" interchangeably. And that's not even counting all the pet-names like Sweetie, Baby, Honey, Poopsie, Schnookums, and (my favorite) Snuggle Puff!

So I try to be understanding when both of my children imitate my husband and I by using our first names....though they're usually screaming "Chris!!" in an annoyed, nasally voice for some unknown reason.

*awkward silence*

*uncomfortable cough*

Anyhow, saying our names around the house is one thing, but my kids take it to the streets. They've learned quickly that calling me by my given name in public is sure to get a response. As a result, the good patrons at our local Walmart have (at various times) believed me to be the mother, aunt, casual friend, and/or distant relative of my own children, depending on which of my numerous titles the little stinkers darlings choose to use that day.

I've tried ignoring them until they use my correct title, but we all know how that sort of thing usually goes.

Never underestimate the tenacity and mental fortitude of a stubborn preschooler.

Or, as Confucius says: "He who stand off with child in Walmart, come home with no grocery."

Oh well. Guess I'll just write this one off as Hopeless Battle #342 and stick with my usual mantra:

"Maybe it's just a phase."

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Sometimes I wish my voice were shriller

The most popular (and heart-warming) quotes heard in my house:

Evie, it disturbs Mommy when you pull the heads off of your Barbie dolls.


Why can't anyone keep their clothes on around here?

What did I just say?

Nice try, kid.

Luke, there is no peeing in the time-out corner.

Evie, there is no peeing in the toy oven.


Kids, get off of the dog's kennel!


....get off of the table!


....get off of the counter!


....get off of your dresser!


....get off of each other!


Please stop scaling the pantry shelves.


Stop sitting on the dog's head.


Stop sitting on your brother's head.


We don't put our hands in the toilet.


Did you just shut her arm in the door??!!!


Did you just bite him?!!


Evie, Luke doesn't want to wrestle.


Ow! What was...why would you throw your sippy cup at my face???!!!


If you stop screaming, she'll give it back.


Where's the boo-boo?


Why did you take your diaper off?


FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, STOP RUBBING FOOD IN YOUR HAIR!


You should have told me you had to go poop!!!


Is it nap time yet?


Why are you dumping shampoo all over the carpet?!!


Why are you dumping lotion all over the carpet?!!


Why do we even OWN a permanent marker?!


You will obey me, child.


Please don't drink the bath water.


Where's your sippy cup?


Can you find it?


Did you even look?


Why are you ignoring me?


If you lay there quietly and let Mommy sleep for another five minutes, I'll give you anything you want.


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One Trick Wonder

Okay, so I'm weird.

...I'll give you a moment to let the shock settle in...

I love to comb wet hair.

Someone else's wet hair.

I think it's the only reason I agree to give free, amateur haircuts for family members. (You'd be surprised at how different the same exact haircut looks on three separate men.)

There's just something so hypnotic about running a fine tooth comb through wet, dark locks of hair....leaving perfectly smooth lines behind. Order out of chaos.

It even makes cutting my mom's hair enjoyable. (She actually gets the same cut as everyone else, only longer. But that's just between you and me.)

And I know Mom loves the experience as well.Not for the combing so much as the cathartic release she gets from having me completely at the mercy of her finicky demands for half an hour.

She pretends that it's just her charming, perfectionist personality...but I know better. I see the gleam in her eye as she mentally relives all the small moments over the past twenty-eight years when I snubbed her advice.

Payback is....well, you know.

But even under those conditions, I still get a simple thrill from combing out her gleaming, raven-colored hair. I could zone out and do it for hours, I think. Or at least until it's dry....or breaking off at the scalp from all the stress.

Which makes me incredibly fortunate to have such a patient little girl.

Evie is a study in contradictions.

For a child that won't sit still long enough to eat, sleep, or use the toilet, she is amazingly still when I'm trying to do her hair. Which is such an extraordinary occurance, I find myself actually pausing every few minutes to check her pulse.

I'm not going so far as to say she actually enjoys it. More like she never got the memo saying she was supposed to hate it. It's an ignorant acceptance.

Or maybe it's because I screech like a banshee when she moves.

Nah.

Just a couple of nights ago, I was sitting on the floor of Evie's bedroom as she sat in front of me, still dripping from the bath. My eyes were slightly glazed as the comb glided through her freshly washed hair again and again until it was slick against her scalp (à la Max Headroom).

Luke, who appreciates his buzz-cut more than ever in moments like these, was sitting casually in the rocking chair and observing.

Finally (after what could possibly have been twenty minutes of this, but probably wasn't because that would be obsessive) he spoke up.

"Mommy, Evie's hair looks awful."

My hand jerked sharply, creating a jagged part across the back of her head. I recovered quickly, smoothing out the part before dramatically jiggling a finger in my ear to dislodge some imaginary blockage.

"What was that, Luke? I'm sure I misunderstood you..."

Apparently, the threat was too subtle for a three-year-old.

"Evie's hair looks awful."

Okay, he's never used that word before. Maybe he's just confused about what it means.

"Did you mean to say that Evie's hair looks nice, Luke?"

"No, Evie's hair looks..." He started to repeat himself, but our eyes connected suddenly over Evie's head, and in that endless moment...that brief eternity in which my twitching eyelid and bulging veins finally registered with the part of his brain dedicated to self-preservation....we had an understanding.

"Or....Evie's hair looks nice, Mommy."

I would have preferred "glorious" but I try not to be finicky.


_______