Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting

I'm on to you

Dear child,

If you and your friend really want to hone your parental manipulation skills and score yourself a sleepover, don't ask me to put your covert plans in my purse as we leave the restaurant.

Sometimes it's best to carry your crap yourself, even if your hands are cold.

Also: parent to parent? I can't tell if that's supposed to be a great idea, or one of those avoid-at-all-costs situations. Can you let me know so I can be prepared next time?

Love, mom

P.S. You're wrong. It's way easier to get me to say yes when we're out in a restaurant and I'm happy and full.

 

The lexicon

Listening to Bea sometimes requires a babel fish. She has her own style of mangling pronouncing words, which cracks me up on a regular basis. I loved this stage with Liv, too.

Chicken = kitchen. ("Bea no sit on chicken coun'ner.")

OH-lurree = Olivia

Granna Jim = Grandma Jan, or, uh, the gym ("mom, I go kid's room at Granna Jim.")

juke = juice ("Bea's juke!")

Mainey = Maisy ("Watch Mainey. Take nap, 'den watch Mainey.")

foam = phone ("foam, foam ring, annal [animal] in truhluh [trouble]" courtesy of Wonder Pets)

lellah = letter

ah-wanAH = around ("Up, ah-wanUH, ah-wanUH, make lellah B!")

 

Grahlah grahlah = gobble gobble

scruhlah = scrub ("Watch me scrulah scruhlah scruhlah with soap!")

rillet rillet = ribbit ribbit ("Itchy Frog, rillet rillet.")

sell-ah = seven ("One, two, free, fowah, five, sis, sell-ah day a week.")

killy cat = kitty cat

twinken = twinkle ("twinken twinken LIL STAHHHH")

I also enjoy the fact that she says "school" just like Megamind ("Bea go shuuuuul, play friend, no play ahPAR"). Less enjoyable:  the fact that she and "ahPAR" have to be separated because they make bad choices when they hang out together. I need to figure out a way to glue her listening ears to her head.

Standoff on Beeler Street

Yesterday was not off to an auspicious start. I sat on Beeler Street -- my destination in plain sight -- as a gang of turkeys staged a very long, very disorganized roadblock. They strutted. They stood. They displayed their feathers. They looked ornery. "Just try to make us move. We don't have anywhere we need to be. GRAHLAH GRAHLAH, suckers."

(That last bit is what Bea says when she sees a turkey (um, minus the "suckers" bit). I think it's supposed to be "gobble gobble.")

Those turkeys were lucky it wasn't November...

(Aside: I had to google the term for a bunch of turkeys and came across this fabulous list and now I'm going to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to work "a shiver of sharks" or "a bloat of hippopotamuses" into conversation.)

I survived the first day of classes this semester. That was not a given, considering how nervous I felt and the fact that I'm  usually in bed by 9:20pm, not talking to a room full of students about the software development lifecycle.

A few highlights and absurdities:

(1) One of my students from China gave me a lovely bookmark for the lunar new year. I smile every time I think of it.

(2) We made the software engineers do impromptu speeches on a topic they picked from a bag, which they just looooooved. I might have somehow said that they could put us on the spot next week. Crap. WHAT was I thinking?

(3) Speaking of impromptu things: This was on the white board when we walked into class yesterday. WTH? Doubly puzzling since this room is used only for software engineering classes. That said, I kinda wish I could have observed that particular class. 

(4) NO ONE FELL ASLEEP in my software doc class. I mean, it's such a scintillating subject to begin with, and when it's from 6:30 - 9:20 pm in a small, windowless conference room, well... I count that as a minor miracle.

(5) I watched someone plug in a hot pot/electric kettle thing and cook noodles. "So what?" you ask... It was in the middle of the freaking floor in the student center. She walked in, plugged the pot into the outlet on the floor, and cooked her lunch. Do you know how many people nearly walked into or onto that pot? Yeah, I don't either because I was too lazy to count, but trust me... it was a lot.

awwwww yeah

Three things:

(1) My kid has a bright future as a traffic cop, or one of those guide-the-planes-with-flashlights people on the tarmac. She is very good at indicating exactly which way something should go. TOO good.

(2) Did she just yell at me to get out of the street?

(3) I have no idea where she learned "aaaaawwww, yeah" but it is cracking me up.

 

Oh, and one more thing: Whenever she finally stopped talking, I could hear her snow pants make that awesome shwip shwip shwip shwip sound as she scurried down the sidewalk. I love that noise. It's the sound of snow days and childhood.

Brave, brave Legume

When you hear "family night" and "restaurant" together, what do you think of? 

Yeah. Me, too. *shudder*

But when Legume  (one of my favorite restaurants) quietly advertised its first family night, I was intrigued. We've always taken Liv there; though there is no kid menu and many items are a little too adventurous for her, she always managed to find something. Plus, the mix-your-own fresh lemonade more than made up for any "mom, I'm not sure I want to eat veal cheeks" moments she had. 

Bea has changed our dining-out habits. And, um, not for the better. Whereas Liv was a restaurant superstar and spent many a dinner at nicer places like Eleven or Soba or Legume, Bea is... well, she's not quite there. When everyone you pass says "Wow, she's really BUSY, isn't she?" then you know it's asking for trouble to plop her at a table in a quiet place for a prolonged meal. That's not to say we don't try -- after all, how else will she learn? -- but the dinner ends up being somewhat stressful.

I digress. Back to Legume.

Family night at Legume was a way for me to inhale the amazing sweet potato ravioli with fermented beets and sauteed mushrooms while not having to worry about Bea disturbing the other diners. It was genius (mostly).

When we came in, the kids were given brown sacks with crayons, stickers, and a coloring book made from old menu pages (ironically, these were the beer and wine lists). One of the enclosed dining areas was set up as a craft room, with a young woman in there to supervise and help. 

The kids came in, decided what they wanted to eat, then scurried off to the craft room. They spent the better part of our two hour dinner gluing all manner of dried grains to paper and doing drive-bys of the table for appetizers and dinner. John and I had a drink, ate our meals, and talked. 

I was amused by the juxtaposition of my salad (warm fresh ricotta, farro, endive, apple, pomegranate, and date-infused honey) with Bea's plate of carrot and apple slices:

 

And here's where I had my only nitpick: The kids' menu. The snacks were decent: slices of good farmhouse cheddar (which Liv ordered but Bea ate because Liv was too busy with the glue and the lentils), homemade applesauce, ants on a log, etc.

But the main course? I was seriously disappointed. Liv was, too.  There were only two offerings: chicken fingers with fries, or buttered noodles. Really? In a restaurant that specializes in local, seasonal cooking, THIS is what's on the kids' menu? Granted, the quality of both was great, but come on, Legume -- you can't come up with something more inspired than that? I mean, fine... play it safe with one or two menu items, but I'd love to see something a bit more interesting. Not every kid eats only chicken fingers or plain pasta. How about a grilled or broiled fish? Or some homemade pierogi? Or a good pasta with something other than just butter? 

Aside from that, the whole experience was great. I applaud Legume for doing this, and hope they continue to do so. I also hope the trend catches on with other local restaurants. It's a win-win situation as far as I can tell: parents are happy, kids are happy, restaurant is full. It's a great way to give someone like Bea more practice in good restaurant behavior without causing me or John to rip out our hair or worry about what everyone else is thinking.

Which reminds me: All of the kids (and there were a lot) were well behaved. There was no running, no shouting, no throwing of food. Aside from the steady stream of kids to/from the craft room and the presence of plastic cups on some of the tables, it didn't seem that different from any other night at Legume.

Take THAT, you crotchety table of old people who came in, looked around, and grimaced when they saw all the kids. I heard one of the women mutter in a disgusted voice, "Is it *always* like this?" Pbttthhh on you.

 

 

In which Pinchy's deep, dark secret is revealed

All this talk of Itchy Frog has reminded me of Pinchy, Liv's beloved stuffed lobster. Pinchy was a little more well-traveled than the frog. Alas, his wanderlust did him in; he met his untimely demise on the Eiffel Tower. (For the full story:  Pinchy did Paris, until Paris did in Pinchy).

Because Liv was so young and gullible, I was able to order a new Pinchy and convince her it was the original one. 

Surely by age 10 she knew that there was no way that stuffed lobster  "wrapped hisself up and he came home," right?  RIGHT?

Yeah. I don't know what she believed, but she had no clue until recently that I was responsible for the whole thing. Bea had unearthed Pinchy II and Liv started reminiscing about his trip to Paris. I tossed out some comment like, "You were so sad when you lost him - trying to find a replacement was really hard." 

Silence. Complete silence.

Then, this: "Wait... WHAT?"

More silence. Wheels turning. Innocence shattering.

"You mean that's not the same Pinchy that I lost on the Eiffel Tower?" 

Whoops. Sorry, kid. 

"You know, I always DID wonder how Pinchy got back here..."

 

The continuing adventures of Itchy Frog

It was a special day for Itchy Frog. He went to school with Bea and hung out in her cubby, being all frog-like and itchy.

He went to dinner at Mad Mex, where he ate a soft taco, carrot sticks and dip, and chocolate cake (as evidenced by three new splotches on his face that are still there despite the vigorous wiping Bea gave him), all while cutting quite the rug to the hip-hop soundtrack.

For the record, frogs look funny when they dance.

But the best was yet to come. At bedtime, Itchy Frog got his very own (very feminine) pajamas. They fit him perfectly... much better than the munkin and mon-sker jammies Bea was trying to put on him.  

The kid was insistent that Itchy Frog wear jammies, and wouldn't put on hers until he had his. And of course, last night was the night that she decided to get really freaking frustrated when her jammies were too big for the frog and his little dangly arms (legs?) wouldn't go all the way through the sleeves.

And as everyone knows, when the kid is frustrated, the mama is frustrated. Especially when it's 8:30 and it's way past bedtime and there is wailing and gnashing of teeth over the ridiculous pajama situation. 

So I did what any mom would do: I stripped the baby doll and put her jammies on the frog. (What? You would TOTALLY do that, too.)

Now we have one nekkid baby doll, but one warm and snug Itchy Frog. 

 

Itchy Frog

It's bizarre, the way kids pick an object to love beyond any other and it's never the object you THINK it should be. Not the soft lovey blanket or the stuffed duck you sent to your kid while she was in China. Not even the awesome purple cat that was briefly carted around everywhere.

Nope. My kid loves a stuffed frog above all else. And not just a frog... it's apparently a frog with some sort of skin condition.

I wish I knew how he got his name. I think it morphed from the itchy iguanas we giggled over in a Boynton book... perhaps since the frog was green, too, he had to be itchy?

Regardless of how he got his name, Bea and Itchy Frog are inseparable... 

Itchy Frog gets zipped up into Bea's coat whenever he has to go outside.

He watches Maisy with her.

He eats her channa masala.

He gets covered up with "blankens" (which are actually my clean dish towels; thanks, kid).

He drives Barbie's Corvette. And not well.

He bravely stands on the train tracks and causes fiery collisions between the trains.

He sleeps with Bea.

He wears Bea's pajamas, pants, socks, and shirts.

He listens carefully to Eric Carle books. His favorite is Panda Bear, Panda Bear, apparently.

He goes on walks. At the end of one particular walk to Miss Erin's house, Itchy Frog ran off with the dog (or perhaps it was the other way around). Poor Bea stood there in disbelief. "Dog! Itchy Frog! Dog chomp Itchy Frog!" 

    

  

   

Basically, if you know where Bea is, you know where Itchy Frog is. And if he's NOT there, well... Last night I was sure she was asleep, but she suddenly bolted upright and moaned "iiiiiitcheeeee froooooogggg" because she realized he was still down on the couch, paying bills with John.

This morning she very dilligently put socks on Itchy Frog (aside: I'm pretty sure his feet are nowhere near a size 3T sock; these went up to his eyebrows) so he could go to school with her. "Itchy Frog go school. Sit in cubby!" Poor, poor frog. 

Related: I went to school last week to pick up Bea and Itchy Frog. While I was there, one little boy came bounding over. "Mrs. Bea's Mom! What's that frog's name?!" I told him. He looked perplexed, and a little disappointed. It seems that he refused to believe Bea when she told him it was Itchy Frog. Understandable. Completely.

As you might suspect, this frog is a little dirty by now. His once cream-colored belly is dotted with remnants of ice cream and pasta and perhaps even some Mad Mex pico burrito. I think it's time for Mr. Toad's Itchy Frog's Wild Ride in the washing machine.