While we're at it, I'd also like a chalet in France

Recent conversation with the Hatchling:

The Hatchling: Mama, I want some CAKE.

Me: We don't have any cake, honey.

The Hatchling: But I want SOME CAKE.

Me: Honey, you only want some cake because you just saw it on Sesame Street. And we don't have any!

The Hatchling: But I NEEEEEED some CAKE! Can you get me some cake?

Me: Well, I need a million dollars. Can you get me a million dollars?

The Hatchling: TEN million dollars.

Me: Sure, that would be even better! Can you get me TEN million dollars?

The Hatchling (walking up to me, putting her hand on my shoulder, and looking at me solemnly): Now, Mama. Do you really think that's a good idea?

Bedtime Stories

Last night. Bedtime. Had battled various bugs in the bedroom earlier in the day and Mr. Squab had to get rid of a spider on the ceiling right above the bed just before we got in. I have a bug phobia.

Me: Can I snuggle with you? (Mr. Squab lifts arm to make the snuggle niche available.) Ummmm ... can you tell me a story?

Mr Squab: (rolls eyes) What are you, five? Why?

Me: I don't want to dream about bugs!! I need some other images in my head!

Mr. Squab: (pause) Once upon a time there was a little boy named Harold who liked to poop in people's yards ...

Me: (snorting with suppressed laughter) What the hell kind of story is THAT? I don't want to dream about poop, either!

Mr. Squab: You asked for a story.

Me: (pause; can't help self) Well, what happened with Harold? Why did he poop in people's yards?

Mr. Squab: If he liked you, he'd leave a log in your yard.

Me: But what did the neighbors say?

Mr. Squab: They didn't say anything. (long pause)

Me: But ... that's not a story! What happened after THAT?

Mr. Squab: Harold died.

Me: Of what?

Mr. Squab: Constipation.

Me: (nearly helpless with laughter, as is Mr. Squab) Oh, my god. That is the worst story ever. There is something wrong with you.

Mr. Squab: Sweet dreams.

Funny. Gross, but Funny.

So the Hatchling is, for all intents and purposes, potty trained. Which: THANK GOD, because if I'd had to keep her home from preschool for still being in diapers, we both would have lost it. But I must say, it's engendered some interesting conversations. For one thing, poop is now, like, the funniest word/concept/joke EVAR. Asked what her baby doll's name was this morning, she responded "Poo-poo!" and laughed like a maniac. Oh, the hilarity.

And then there was this gem: she'd gone #2 in the downstairs porta-potty, so after we wiped and pulled up her underwear, I went to grab the potty so I could go upstairs and empty it in the toilet. The Hatchling, however, was not having any of it. SHE would carry the poop. Only SHE could do it. So, okay, we go to the stairs and I have several heart attacks as she precariously makes her way up, but she does it, and then she goes over to the toilet, dumps the poop in, leans over, looks down, and says, "THERE! Now you can swim!"

I don't even want to KNOW the mental process, y'all. I don't even want to know.

Preschoolers: adding surreality to every waking moment.

This morning, the Hatchling was playing with a friend in the friend's backyard, which is dominated by a very large maple tree. "Oh, wookit," said the Hatchling, gazing fondly up the enormous tree trunk. "Monsters."

"Wow, there are monsters in that tree?" I reply. "Cool. How many monsters are there?"

"Dey up inda TREE, mama. Wookit. Dere's some bones, and dere's some bodies, and dere's some healthy snacks!"

Sweet Tap-Dancing Jesus, this is awesome

Someday, when my children are teenagers and start wondering aloud why I'm so weird all the time, I will show them this video. Because, frankly, once you've seen a musical version of Star Wars starring Donnie and Marie with cameos by Redd Foxx as Obi-Wan, Kris Kristofferson as Han Solo, Paul Lynde(!) as Grand Moff Tarkin, the actual Chewie, C-3PO and R2-D2, and a chorus line of Storm-Troopers and their Fem-Bot counter parts, you understand a helluva lot more about growing up in the late 70s. Srsly. So grab a Fanta, plop down in your beanbag chair, and enjoy ten minutes of jaw-dropping vintage weirdness. Because when *I* was a kid, *this* was prime-time television. (thanks to cwethern for the link!)

I have no idea where she gets it

The Hatchling has been especially dramatic lately, because, well, she's three and all, and everything is a big deal, for better or worse. A lot of the dramatics are real, by which I mean that she's really feeling INCREDIBLY HAPPY or INCREDIBLY ANGRY or INCREDIBLY SAD about something, but she's also started to do faux emotions as a kind of game or to get attention. Mostly, her father and I find this annoying and/or tiring, but sometimes it gives me the giggles.

This afternoon, for example, after we'd had a semi-exhausting trip to Target ("Want to get down, Mama? Get outta cart? Get DOWN, Mama? DOWN??? Want treat? I NEEDA treat! I NEEDAWANTA TREAT!!!!!!! etc.) she had finished lunch and it was getting close to naptime.

"Are you ready for naps, Boo?" her father asked.

"Nooooooooo, no, no, no, no." the Hatchling explained.

"Ok, well, pretty soon it's time to go upstairs for naps."

The Hatchling starts spiraling around the living room, faux crying/whimpering. Because she's so tired. And sad. And forlorn. And also tired and sad. Mr. Squab decided to cut his losses and play along.

"Awwwwww, are you so sad? Ready to go night-night?"

The Hatchling looks even more pitiful. "Okay, Daddy."

"Then go give Mama hugs and kisses."

The Hatchling approaches me with a faraway look on her face, embraces me, kisses me, and backs away slowly, sorrowfully. "Good-bye, Mama," she intones, waving her hand as if it takes the last bit of strength she has, finally turning to drift up the staircase. It was like fucking Camille in the final throes of galluping consumption. Christ.

We can only hope that she channels this ability to lucrative ends at some future point. God knows it hasn't worked for me yet.

The physics of porridge

This might be the best thing I've read on the internets all year:

The only way that the story can make sense is if, for some reason, the Mama Bear has the smallest portion of porridge. In which case, this is a story with a very different moral than the original-- it's a story about the oppression of the Mama Bear, either because the patriarchy is forcing her to eat only the scraps left behind after her husband and child have had their fill, or because the unhealthy woodland media culture has saddled her with a negative body image, leading to an eating disorder.

You really need to read the whole thing.

Seriously?

The Sprout is (knock wood, throw salt over shoulder, sacrifice to the gods, etc.) an extremely mellow and easy going baby, which is a good thing considering the major conniption fits her older sister is giving me lately, but last night she got me but good in a manner that demanded to be blogged:

So all the houseguests have gone to bed, the Hatchling has finally quieted down and gone to sleep, and it's just me and Mr. Squab waiting for the Sprout to settle down so we can go to sleep. I figure I'll change her diaper so she'll feel all nice and clean, so I put her down on the sofa and get started. She's had a terrible diaper rash so once the, um, area is all prepared, I get some ointment out and lean in to make sure I apply it in all the correct places. I've applied maybe 1/2 of the salve when the Sprout ... well, I'm not sure what to call what she did. Projectile shitting? A shart? The unholy marriage of gas and excrement? You get the idea. Did I mention how I was leaning in at the time? Yeah. You don't know from bad parenting moments until your infant child has SHOT LIQUID POOP ALL OVER YOUR FACE. And yes, my mouth was open, since you ask. "Thank god you had your glasses on," was Mr. Squab's response (after running into the kitchen to get paper towels and water to help me clean up).

I tell you what, there is no way to prepare for something like that. But you can be damn sure I'm keeping my distance in all future ointment applying situations.

Two Things

Item one - Conversation between me and the Hatchling this afternoon, as she's running around with her superhero "cape" on (a big silk scarf she ties around her neck):

Hatchling: I superhewwo!

Me: You are a superhero.

Hatchling: Fwy weawwy fast.

Me: You sure are flying fast. Go, go, go!

Hatchling (stopping and looking right at me): I BATMAN.

Me: You're Batman?!

Hatchling: Yeah, dat's wight. I BATMAN!!!!

Her father is so proud.

Item Two - I've been scanning in some old family photos just so I have them digitally, and I came across this one of me and my parents circa 1972. I'm not normally at a loss for words, but ... wow. Kind of explains a lot, doesn't it?

Friday Video Blogging

TGIF, y'all. In honor of the weekend, here's a little Hatchling video of a game she and her BFF invented Wednesday at playgroup. It's SO TOTALLY HILARIOUS ... if you're almost three. But it's pretty funny even if you're older.


The Kissing Game from Squab on Vimeo.

Happy Valentine's Day

I know it's all chic and cool to hate on Valentine's day, but fuck it: any holiday that includes nice flowers and the consumption of good chocolate is A-OK with me, fabricated or not. However, just because I like V-day doesn't mean I don't have a sense of humor about it:

Don't be a whore, kids! Enjoy that chocolate! (Thanks to Sally for the image.)

Just another literary evening in the Squab household

Should I be concerned that my almost-three-year-old chooses more heavyweight reading material than I do?

The Natural

Today we had our regular Wednesday playgroup with a group of moms and kids that we enjoy hanging out with. This week, for whatever reason, the Hatchling was the only girl for the first half of the group - it was just her and four other little boys. At this age, the whole gender thing doesn't make much of a difference when they're playing (thank goodness) but today all the little boys seemed to have spring fever or something and there was a lot of bickering and fighting going on. When we went into the dining room for snack time, there was only enough room at the little kid's table for three; the three oldest boys took those seats, the baby sat with his mother, and the Hatchling chose to sit at the big table with the Mamas. It wasn't long before a major quarrel erupted at the kids' table (someone's plate was touching someone else's, if you can believe it) and the recriminations started to get a little deafening. The relevant moms wearily moved to intervene, but before any of them could reach the table, the Hatchling got down from her chair, went over to the boys and in a loud, authoritative voice said "HEY! Hey, guys! What's goin' on?" She put her hand on the back of one of the boys and started to babble something that we couldn't totally understand, but was clearly intended to mediate between the squabblers. (It sounded kind of like "ashabba boogaba dashalso FOOD baggabagaa YOU PLAY.") The boys sort of stopped, and the Hatchling calmly returned to her seat and resumed snacking. We parental units were having a fit of the giggles. She did it again when another fight broke out, and then sat back down at the table with a distinctly smug look on her face. I have never seen her do anything like that before, but I tell you what, she handled it like a pro. Her future sister is screwed.

Well, it *is* one of his favorite topics ...

Yesterday the Hatchling was playing "phone" with the TV remote up to one ear and the telephone up to the other ear. The conversation was ... interesting:

Hatchling: Oh, hi, Daddy! Yeah, yeah, ok-ok-ok. Vewwy good, vewwy good. Oh, I fine, I fiiiiiiiine, how YOU? Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, Daddy. Oh? Oh, no. Ohhhhh, nooooo, pooooop. Dat's gwoss, Daddy. Oh, yucky poops. Vewwy yucky poops, Daddy.

Me: Are you talking to Daddy about your poop?!?

Hatchling: Dat's right, Mama! Vewwy good!

So, to sum up: potty training? No way, no how. Extended one-way imaginary conversations about excrement? Absolutely.

IT IS SO TRUE

Ha! Got this from my friend Alex. Had to share. Thanks for the home remedy suggestions! I will try them all.

more music charts

This one's for you, Dad

(Thanks, Lori!)

Quote of the day

Atrios on the former (yesssss!) VP's formal entrance onto the inaugural platform:

"Who invited Mr. Potter?"

So freaking awesome

Just doing my bit to spread some holiday joy. And Holy Hannah, does this give me a lotta joy. Shamelessly stolen from Questionable:

Yes. YESSSSSSS!

This has always bothered me, too!

Word.

Heh heh.