Classic quotes, Vol. 42

Here are a few more recent quotes from my 8-year-old son D- and my 5-year-old daughter M-:

M- (after M- mentioned kitten scratches and J- & I both sang "cat scraaatch feverrr" accompanied by mouth guitars): Is that from a commercial for a hospital??

D- (incredibly intense, as M- began to urgently tell me about something unimportant while I was "sleeping" on the couch): M-, are you INSANE?!?

M- (holding up a paper saying "POO" in large letters): Look, I spelled "pool"!

M- (speaking sternly to her 2-year-old brother E-, who is obsessed with her stuff): As I already ESTABLISHED, this pink ball is MINE!

And a classic from this summer, when we were desperately trying to bathe 8 kittens to rid them of a flea infestation:

M- (eyes wide, enjoying the carnage): It's like a KITTEN nursery in here! Except a kitten nursery run by DRUNK people, who have no idea what they're doing!

A conversation between M- and D-: It's "Anything Doody" time!

Short and to the point, this is how my 8-year-old son D- and 5-year-old daughter M- spend much of their free time:

M- (her part of some random chit-chat I'd tuned out): ...duty.

D- (starts to laugh): Wait, do you mean the FUNNY "doody", or the normal, serious "duty"?

M- (almost disappointed in herself): The serious one.

D- (soberly): Oh.

---

You may enjoy my previous D- conversations, M- conversations, and (wife) J- conversations, as well as my future (<2YO son) E- conversations.

A conversation with M-: A teachable moment...

Despite two years served under the patient ears of The Tattling Turtle at school, my 5-year-old daughter M- still tattles like nobody's business*, and her 8-year-old brother D- has long ago earned his Veteran Kid status, which entitles him to get away with all kinds of secrets and sneakiness under our noses, as this frustratingly inconclusive conversation demonstrates:

M- (the "eager" version of The Tattling Voice): Last night, I was trying to sleep, and D- was keeping me up by saying a bad word. One that means "horse poop"?

Me (mild curiosity officially piqued): ...Oh? Which word was that?

M- (wishing she could help, realizing she's out of ammo): Ummmm... I don't remember. You should ask him.

Me (recklessly pressing the point while the iron is hot): You won't get in trouble for saying what it was. Was it something like "cr... cr... cr..."

M- (blank stare): Uhhhh...

Me (scrambling, hoping she doesn't start asking followups, to add to her extensive vocabulary, but now confident I've nailed it down at Level 2): Was it something with "sh... sh... shhh..."

M- (another blank stare, then resignation, which is apparently what you get when you seem to take tattles seriously): Umm, well, I don't really remember what the word is, but I know it's bad, and I know it means "horse poop".

So, it seems that D- is either cataloging new slang words that don't spring to my mind, or he may have invented a hilarious new game of 1) declaring secret, scandalous meanings to made-up words; or 2) assigning new meanings to existing, innocuous words; with the primary or secondary intention of getting his sister to cash in all her tattling chips on unenforceable violations. Both of the latter options are genius, and make me pretty perversely proud.

---

* If anything, this stuffed turtle just allows her to practice new techniques. She talked about him all the time in the beginning, but the very first time I made reference to him myself, she made a point of assuring me, with an expression and tone that suggested I might be an idiot, that he is "not real". Thus, he is powerless to act on any of her solid intel.

Classic quotes, Vol. 35

Here are the latest memorable quotes from my 5-year-old daughter M-, my 7-year-old son D-, and my 1-year-old son E- that I've managed to remember or write down:

M- (referring to the snowman she was mentally designing, for her preschool homework): And his name will be "Ho-Wrecker"!

Kid at school (amazed, watching E- doing a victory lap with a basketball he found): Whoa! That baby can WALK!

M- (after being asked an obvious question, before I reached in to turn on the fan): ...No. I'm sweating, but I'm not pooping. ... I'm sweating!

D- (after we were talking about dogs and wolves eating grass): THAT'D be cool, to see a wolf throw up.


M- (approximately 10 minutes after first regretting asking me why February 29 is a special day): ...Oh..... 

Amusing searches, Vol. 14

Here are more of the most amusing searches that have brought people here recently, this time with the theme of: The Least Depressing Searches That Led People to my 10 Reasons my 3-Year-Old Son May be Homosexual Post.

(All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered, and the search text links to the post at which the visitor arrived.)

• 4-year old son walks gay (Harlingen, TX) - You know what they say, if it walks like a gay, and talks like a gay, you're probably unnaturally obsessed with your child's sexuality. Father or mother, I'm just glad this is how you spent your Mother's Day.

• 5 year old behaving homosexual (Queen Creek, AZ) - You'd think living in a place named Queen Creek, Arizona, you'd be resigned to this kind of thing. He's just trying to fit in!!

• when 2 year olds smear feces on the walls (Covington, KY) - Let me finish that for you: "...then the fun begins!"

• is it wrong for my 3 year old to sleep with me (Marysville, OH) - Yes, but only because the resultant insomnia might cause you to murder him or her "in your sleep".

• 20 year old son maybe homosexual? (Billings, MT) - Preeeeeeeeeeetty sure by this point, it's no longer your concern.

Things my wife hates

The following is just a small sampling, put into list form, of the things my wife hates, as plucked from a recent conversation while pregnant AND sick with a stomach flu.

1. Stupid children acting like stupider children.*

2. Feeling sick just thinking about food.

3. Feeling hungry all the time anyway.

4. Stupid teachers acting like the stupidest children.

5. Pooping at work.

---

* Ranting about our tender, young, innocent children? No, not this time. She teaches junior high in a special ed school for kids with behavioral problems. The kids who get kicked out of literally everywhere else they could go, end up on her doorstep.**

** A barbed doorstep made 18" thick of solid, pure, American-made Tough Love.

Amusing searches, Vol. 9

Here are more of the most amusing searches that brought people here recently, ones so odd they don't really need a theme beyond that.

(All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered, and the search text links to the post at which the visitor arrived.)

• douche storm (Pierrelatte, France) - Since the word "douche" sounds Frenchy (and the concept seems like a French idea, frankly), I'm pretty sure it means the same thing to you as it does to me... in which case I just have to run this search myself to see what comes up. Maybe it's some kind of new kinky French thing? Or else some kind of frat initiation somewhere... say, Southern California?

• fatal orgasm (Bedford, UK) - Hey, I thought I invented that! Wow, you learn something new every day... I've now decided the central tenet of my living will. Why merely pull the plug on someone when you could instead pull something else to send them away so much... less clinically?

• amelia earhart homosexual (Vancouver, WA) - As has now been clearly established, she could only have been a homosexual if the objects of her affection were carefully woven of magical thread.

• pictures of iguana poop (Plymouth, UK) - Sorry, no pictures. Just the facts, ma'am.

• why people don't like nervous people (Birmingham, UK) - If I knew that, I wouldn't spend so many nights crying myself to sleep, buddy.

• loving things to write in an anniversary card to your parents (Winterville, GA) - Oh, I don't know, how about something like:

Dearest Mother and Father,
Everything I feel about you, I found through a Google search.
Happy Anniversary! ...and stuff...
Somebody else loves their parents very much.

Sincerely,
Not That Person

• Percentage of students with herpes at Northeastern University (Stow, MA) - Hmmmm... these days? I'm gonna say 60%.

There will be water.

Every day I live out here in the country in our new house, I expand my perspective on the world in new and unexpected ways. For example, I now know there are several very different ways you can think of your basement.

One way, with a properly finished basement, is as an extra living space, with all the amenities of the above-ground floors.

Another way, with a standard basement, is as a place to store things you want out of the way, or a place to house your tool collection where everybody else won't get their grubby hands all over it.

A third way, with my basement, is as a handy container to hold massive amounts of water, one that should be measured cubically for volume rather than by square footage when assessing its value as part of the house.

I'll spare you the details of my theories on hows and whys, but I'll just say that until you've seen streams of bubbles emerging from cracks in your floor, as the already pretty sodden Earth readily drinks up the surprising source of refreshment that is your basement, you can't truly appreciate the ability to nurture that space as a precious aquatic environment on an otherwise inhospitable frozen prairie.

Also, a situation like this allows you to learn the gallon capacity of your super-sweet new snow snovel. (Plus, what else would fully clean off all the clay from shoveling out the leftover pile of dirt from the previous owner's hasty sump-pump installation?)

Like so many things in life, this (hopefully temporary) stressful and somewhat frustrating situation has a bright side-- I've learned so much about sump pump specifications, the intricacies of water softening and iron removal systems, and the effects of a loosely filled old well pit having recently unfrozen sump discharge lines emptying right on top of it.

And of course, living out here in what's effectively the nicest cabin ever built, nature's always here to teach me something, too. Like that high winds carrying loose snow always seek the best-shoveled path. And that quaint as all the bunny tracks around the constantly replenished source of fresh, salty water may be, eventually that thing making the larger prints every morning will manage to find itself something to eat one day when it comes for its own warm drink.

And that meal will be sure to evacuate its every orifice before shuffling off this mortal coil, all across the view from your breakfast table.

Just breathe deep of that fresh country air, my friends. Ahhhh...

Classic quotes, Vol. 20

Here's the latest batch of quotes from my wife J-, my 5-year-old son D-, my 2-year-old daughter M-, and me:

D- (talking about his "girlfriend" of the last month or so): Jessenia and I are going to get married. And then we're going to have a baby. (I ask him what they'll name it) Ummm, Joseph... Toys.

M- (on toilet, happily): Something's coming out... (mischievously) Guess what it is??

Me (getting a look from J- after I jokingly joined her in scolding herself for dropping pictures behind the scalding radiator): What?! I thought we were berating you as a couple for your clumsiness!

D- (casually telling my mom about his abovementioned girlfriend): Yeah, we're in love, so we're going to get married. (remembering) Oh, and I'm also going to marry Naya!

M- (rightfully infuriated with D-): No D-, those are mine! (he gleefully ignores her) Stop it! (lunging towards him with outstreched hands) I will choke you!

Kids are nature's way of overwhelming your gag reflex

For those of you who don't have children, or those who just haven't found out quite yet, somehow, I have a very special bulletin for you.

Children are, as a species, probably the most disgusting beings on Earth, with the tie-breaking edge being handed to them over the dung beetle only because their cute, innocent looks and demeanors really blindside you with the scandalous truth.

I mean, you don't know how many times you'll have to ask them, whether an infant or a first-grader, to stop graphically tonguing the handle of a shopping cart, especially if it's got crevices (thanks Target).

A typical run-in with a child might involve you asking what the strange, unpleasant odor is, and receiving an answer to the effect of, "Ummm, my butt was itchy so I put my hand in it to scratch it, and yes, I then handled my sandwich (and/or yours) and chips, which I retrieved myself from the bag. ... Yes, I will remove the hand from my mouth."

And, let me tell you, this information will be delivered sheepishly only if your questions or tone suggest there's something wrong with the situation.

Before you think, "Oh, ha-ha, I get it-- this one event happened to Dan and now he's making a post generalizing the idea as a method of telling us about it," let me assure you, this particular sequence did NOT happen to me as described above, it's actually portions of multiple (and redundant) incidents combined for expediency's sake.

And the basic idea behind it is just the first one that sprung to mind! Yes, that's right, there are many, many more. But you don't need to hear all those. You should just take my word for it, there's a reason you don't get sick more often than you do now-- you were a child once, and you were disgusting.

Things I've smelled worse than this

I must admit, when I read this recent news item about an unfortunately abandoned meat processing factory in South Dakota...

44 tons of rotting meat stink up S.D. town

---

[The] 44 tons of bison meat managed to hold its own for months, masked by the brutal chill of two South Dakota winters. Once the power was cut and spring thaw arrived, nature took over. And enough rotting meat to fill a high school gym did exactly what you'd expect: It stank.
...
The mayor said he spent two tours of duty in Vietnam and could not recall smelling anything as bad.

---

...I was more than a little thrown by the little hints of horror my imagination was able to muster. But after just a few moments of reflection, I decided that while I don't envy the poor saps who had to clean up this place, it wouldn't be a totally new experience for me, for several reasons.

Here are just a few of the things I've been lucky enough to smell that were more nauseating than this place would be:

1. A swollen ball of a disposable diaper that was somehow accidentally disposed under the radiator for a couple days. This one had a few sequels, which says a lot about our tenacious laziness and sloppiness.

2. The parking garage staircase at the CTA Howard Station on a hot summer day. If they leave the door closed for more than 10 minutes, I'm pretty sure the handle starts melting, threatening to trap everyone inside. That's the only reason I can think that they usually have it propped open. Because they obviously don't much care about the smell.

3. The first burst of gas upon opening any one of the 15,000 sippy cups the kids have left somewhere to miraculously change chocolate milk to chocolate cheese in a mere matter of days.* Eat that, Jesus!

4. The emergency exit hallway at a movie theater where I worked years ago, due to years of overflowing garbage cans being left there all day during busy weekends. The rancid residue of years of the unique mixture that is Movie Theater Garbage is much more potent than you would imagine, possibly because it's not an obviously objectionable smell that you would brace yourself for before encountering.

So you get it with both barrels, assaulted on every flavor-wavelength at once and confused beyond measure at what could be doing this to your brain. Burnt popcorn soaked in fermented Coke syrup chased by a touch of vomit and many rotten stubs of hot dogs that weren't exactly fresh to start with... I never could wrap my head around what the star player would be in this sum so much greater than its parts.


I know I could go on, but it seems my brain has been doing its best to protect me from my own memories. While brainstorming throughly to come up with contenders for this list, I was repeatedly able to taste little morsels of olfactory pain without recalling its source or the time and place of my trauma. I saw numerous flashes of myself writhing in agony, wincing away from diapers and dumpsters, burying my face in my shirt and arming myself with thick gloves.

So, what I mean to say is, with a bit of therapy, I can definitely pump this list up to at least 11. Then maybe after that catharsis, I'll sleep through the night without The Nightmares. Oh, The Nightmares.

---

* Or, in a tiny handful of bizarre cases, a matter of weeks.

Parenthood is...

...watching an iguana defecate on the neighbor's kitchen floor and being less bothered by the sight and smell than by the knowledge that the kids will be talking about it nearly constantly for at least the next year and a half.

Things 2-year-olds like doing

...Sneaking off to leave a secret (and aptly named) number 2 in a potty chair*, despite months of using the adult toilet, so everyone else can be baffled for hours by the mystery stench that just won't flush away.

Now that I think about it, this is a pretty good prank, and I know I have a built-in scapegoat...

---

* In our defense, it's been used mostly as a stepstool for awhile now.

BlogHer notes from an outsider

Since I'm still seeing other people's BlogHer recaps popping up every day, I don't feel so bad about procrastinating this long. For those who don't care, this is one and done.

---

It probably says a lot about me, especially during my current phase of life, that when a convention comes to town that has HER in the title, I just can't wait to hop on the train and head downtown.

But when you blog about your kids as much as I do, you tend to read and be read by bloggers who also write about their kids. The world being what it is, that means I hang with chicks most the time. Online, anyway.

But BlogHer coming here to Chicago meant that I had the rare opportunity to meet a lot of these people in person, which was at once exciting and terrifying. If I was the kind of person to throw myself into social situations with people I don't know very well, then I probably wouldn't sit by myself writing on the internet so much. I'd probably be running some company that made popular things for popular people. And I'd have a lot more money. And I'd sit on my ergonomic toilet seat staring at magazines with my own face (and abs) on the cover, wondering if I'd ever stop shitting solid gold bricks.*

But whether that's a more desirable life than mine or not is neither here nor there. The fact is, I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday a couple weeks ago showing up with my wife at the Chicago Sheraton without conference passes, and without knowing what venues would be available for us to meet people without accosting them at cabstands and bathroom sinks.

And you know what? It was awesome.

Except for that pesky day in the middle on which I actually wondered if I might die on the bathroom floor at a fancy hotel, just like a life-conquering celebrity but without the drugs or success.

So if you saw me on Friday and wondered why I looked so surly and distant (sorry Neil and Suzanne), it's only because I was intently trying not to vomit and/or internally debating the best position in which to lie in case I got a choice moments before death's icy finger tagged my soul out to send some fresh meat into the Diarrhea Olympics.

Before all that, though, I got to spend some quality time with Middle-Aged Woman (Unmitigated) and Muskrat, meet Black Hockey Jesus and Tanis (Redneck Mommy), and then wonder how the hell I was going to find anyone else in the mass of humanity who wasn't introduced to me by someone else. Heck, we spent well over an hour at the SociaLuxe party playing with customizable name bracelets without meeting a soul I knew. Sure, I saw Jenny the Bloggess and Kristen Chase (Motherhood Uncensored) but was too timid to interrupt their respective series of conversations with nothing but an awkward introduction, but that doesn't really count.

While waiting for the People's Party later that night, I recognized Miss Grace, who introduced me to Matthew from Child's Play x2 among others. Then once the party started I rejoined my wife, who'd spent an hour or two packing swag bags with Middle-Aged Woman, only to find out that she not only had met Jenny the Bloggess (and Nancy W. Kappes!), but she got a Bloggess sticker she was specifically forbidden to give me.** I figure since I was meeting Black Hockey Jesus at that time, it kind of evens out, cosmically.***

I somewhat redeemed myself later by saying hi to Momo Fali, Kristen, and Brittany (Barefoot Foodie), but overall I was so overwhelmed I missed far more opportunities than I seized, which was made especially tragic by Friday's aforementioned chaos. So much for getting my feet wet on Thursday and making the most out of Friday.

I convinced myself on Friday afternoon that despite some stomach pain, I felt okay enough to soldier through the evening as long as I didn't risk eating anything. I hadn't thrown up yet at that point and I figured I must be suffering no more than the effects of eating at IHOP at 2am the night before, instead of battling some kind of flesh-eating virus hell-bent on liquefying my insides, as my foe was later to be revealed.

My late arrival on the scene Friday is the root cause of numerous missed connections with awesome people like Maggie and Mike Adamick, and my lack of organization and outgoingness is the cause of my missing out on dozens more people I should have met somewhere, somehow in the crowds.

After being turned away from the MamaPop party by none other than Mrs. 4444 herself (just doing her duty as the lady with the checklist), I took that as a sign I should give up defiling the absolutely vacant bathrooms (but I bet the lines at the women's bathrooms were epic) of the Sheraton and call it a night at the relatively early hour of 10pm. That hour is for me, unfortunately for my overall health, much like 6:30 is for normal people.

Turns out, of course, we missed the best party of the conference, and a unicorn cake. A unicorn cake!

But the rest did me good (specifically the sporadic series of naps in a bath/shower and the patient nursing of my wife), as did the tentatively resumed ability to absorb small amounts of fluids for the first time in over 12 hours. Fluids make the hallucinations go away! Well, most fluids do, anyway.

So we showed up Saturday evening in time to meet longtime readers MamaNeena and Andrea (Sweet Life) and have a good talk (wishing we'd had more time to hang out that night and earlier in the weekend) before heading over to Quartino for dinner [picture] with Middle-Aged Woman, Vodka Mom, Sprite's Keeper, Stiletto Mom, DeeMarie, Shopgirl, Amo, and Jill-- we hadn't been here before but we definitely want to come back. J- because she wants more of what she ordered, and me because I'd like to go there when I can actually eat food.

We then headed to the bowling alley for BowlHer, which, due to the brain-squashing noise, was not good for meeting people you didn't already know. However, it was very good for getting stuff, since it was co-sponsored by several numerous companies. How can you go wrong with free cupcakes, wine, chocolate, and gift cards?

After deciding we'd had enough of the noise, we headed back to the Sheraton to check out the CheezeburgHer Party, which would have been 10x better if I was better able to eat by this point. We mostly just sat on a very comfortable couch in the presidential suite realizing how tired we were, but we were happy to get the chance to meet Elisa (Unlikely Housewife) after trying to coordinate a meetup all day. We then headed the 32 floors downstairs, where I met Backpacking Dad on my way to the bathroom.

I passed on sticking it out any longer in case tiredness made me relapse, and we reluctantly headed for home with about 30 pounds of swag (thanks largely to all those wine bottles people flying home had to give away). How strange we must have looked to non-blogging civilians on our ride home-- good thing we left the pink feather boa from BowlHer at the CheezeburgHer Party.

Still, with all the tote bags filled with food and pink or leopard print odds and ends, I might as well have been wearing my new blogging shirt and singing at the top of my lungs.

Anyway, if we met you there, we were glad to meet you, and if we didn't, we were sad we didn't. I don't think we'll make it out to New York next year, but that's not for lack of desire. Here's hoping against hope anyway that we'll see you all there!

---

* Or maybe eggs, more likely, because I'm pretty sure people like that don't have to put up with inconveniences like sharp corners.

** And then she goes and taunts me by just leaving her leftover stickers in the bathroom for normal people to be confused by.

*** Except that I'm still pathetically devastated I never got to meet Jenny.

Amusing searches, Vol. 1

I figured I'd start a new post department for the most amusing searches that brought people here, grouped vaguely by theme whenever possible.

All search strings are reprinted exactly as they were entered. This disclaimer frees me from my compulsion to add (sic) to the end of most of these.

• 22 year old son who is lazy -- I hate to break it to you, lady, but I'm 28 now.

• 3 year old son mean negative -- I assure you, madame (and I assure you it's a mother asking), your kid is absolutely normal. Possibly advanced, even.

• why does my toddler wipe feaces eveywhere -- Because it just feels so damn good. Before you cast the first righteous stone, have you ever, honestly, tried it for yourself?

I don't know if I should be honored or ashamed that I was the 21st hit across all of the internet for this search. It's not my highest unlikely ranking, but it's probably the most vividly disgusting one.

• i am not resposible - What a coincidence, friend! You're not the only one. Oh, while you're here, remind me to add your hometown of Frankenmuth, Michigan to my next list of cities with ridiculous names.

Classic quotes, Vol. 16

Here are a few choice quotes just from the past two weeks of our vacation alone, this time all from my 5-year-old son D- and 2-year-old daughter M-:

M- (slapping my legs while she sat on the toilet): I'm cwapping your pants!*

D- (after winking at our now-fawning waitress, while smiling coyly): What's your name?

M- (asked of Grandma absolutely out of the blue, then restated by D- after she understandably questioned what M- had asked): Why does Santa have helpers?

M- (a moment of clarity during a minor tantrum in a restaurant): I'm fwustwaited!!

M- (on another occasion, reaching up and pushing on my chin while I was telling her how naughty she was acting): I am cwosing your mouth, to stop your talking to me!**

And to close this very M--heavy quote list, a bonus from before we left for vacation:

M- (generously offering some of her "Mystery" flavored lollipop): You want a wick of my Mystery?

---

* The next day she said she was, "Cwapping on [my] head," which honestly isn't as far-fetched as it should be, given some of the barely contained bodily-function mishaps we've come to know so well.

** Rest assured, she earned herself a good yellin'-to for this typically self-narrated mutinous behavior.

Developments at our house, Vol. 16

Here are some of the latest developments around here:

1. After 5 years of reading both the classic original stories and the cartoony Disney version of Winnie-the-Pooh, my son D- finally realized that the lead character's name is "poo".*

2. I was made aware that my current roommates are so tiny I can unknowingly smuggle one of their socks in my freshly-laundered underpants for at least several hours before noticing it.

3. It says a lot about my currently uncertain status in life that I get e-mails opening with lines like, "Congratulations, you're a 2009 Mother of the Year!" and including videos like this.

I think I need to go slather myself with motor oil and kill something that only seems not defenseless.

---

* He was amused.

Classic quotes, Vol. 15

Here is a selection of recent quotes from my 5-year-old son D-, 2-year-old daughter M-, my wife J-, and me:

M- (out of the blue, answering J-'s generic question about whether she's excited to grow up): Yes, I want to get bigger so I can wear a bwah!*

Me (squinting without glasses in the shower as I speak to the kids with an accusatory but unsurprised tone, pointing right by my foot): Hey guys, is that poop?? (picking it up) ...Oh, no, it's just a tiny carrot peel and a bunch of brown thread.**

M- (smiling as she tastes a jar of banana puree I found in the cabinet from the days before she could offer such eloquent food criticism): This has a good fway-vor!

D- (as a deep-voiced Incredible Hulk, apparently learning to channel his powers into productive areas): ... I would ask some workers about knocking down an old building, then I'd say, 'I'm The Green Hulk!' and smash it down to pieces! Smash it to pieces for them with punching!!

M- (holding a piece of butterfly-printed fabric around herself): I have a butterfly belt, cause I'm a butterfly! ...pirate.

---

* I have a troubled feeling she's going to stay ahead of the curve into adulthood, bringing home bounties of drama and strife every day from third grade on.

** I ended up forgetting it on the shelf of the shower, so a bleary-eyed J- got to share the pleasure of the same dilemma the next morning.

I think I've broken my kid

Aren't preschool kids supposed to be pretty imaginative, or at least relatively uncritical of the unknown world around them? Aren't they supposed to sit, slack-jawed, in an awestruck stupor whenever you turn on the TV?

My kids in particular are pretty deprived of television, other than watching I'd-guess-almost-weekly age-appropriate movies and playing the very occasional videogame, but here are just two revealing tidbits I heard from my 5-year-old son while we all endured a really quite awful* Winnie-the-Pooh movie recently:

"They shouldn't have put that in the movie... they should have cut it."

I let the kid watch deleted scenes on a DVD one time and now he thinks he's Martin Scorsese.

"Why do they keep singing songs??"

In his defense, the songs in this movie were undeniably painful, and completely unnecessary to boot. It really was like they had the movie finished, found it was too short, decided "kids' movies have songs, right?", and then went back to add some more scenes where everyone puts their stuff down and starts tunelessly singing some vaguely related song they all just made up on the spot.

And by the latter "they", I mean actual talking stuffed animals with cotton for brains. And redundant inner ear problems blocking their sense of rhythm or timing.

So, I guess this is my way of saying two things. One, my children have absolutely no sense of magical awe or wonder at this world around them, thereby ruining them for religion or even normal human development, and two, Pooh's Grand Adventure: The Search for Christopher Robin is an unbelievably godawful movie.

Just stick with Pixar. Or, if necessary, smash your TV with a baseball bat and tell your kids that the spirit of Walt Disney briefly possessed you and sought both to save them from the horror his company has become and to punish them for asking to watch this movie. The End.

---

* When I say "really quite awful", it's my way of being charitable, as my mom would call it. I do that only because when it's convenient to me, I declare that this is a family blog.

But down here in the footnotes? Oh, anything's fair game. It's kids that have trouble reading fine print, right? Anyway, doesn't matter.

This movie is so bad from top to bottom, start to finish, conception to execution, that I would only be mildly disconcerted to personally witness A.A. Milne himself rise from the dead to formally submit the notarized paperwork to have his name disassociated from the movie.**

** And adult-sized Pooh-related costumes. And Pooh underwear, cause that's just really confusing terminology for parents of toddlers.

A conversation with M-: The wipe that shakes the barley

This is the epitome of a conversation I have with M- at least once every day, proving she's definitely my kid:

Me: Hey, are you stinky?

M- (shiftily): No.

Me: I beg to differ. (as supportively as I can muster) Okay, we have to change your diaper now. (while beginning to change her) You have to tell somebody when you have to go to the bathroom, rememb...

M- (eagerly, in a Notifying Tone): I have to go to the bathroom!

Me: Yes, I know you did, that's why I'm here changing you-- you have to tell somebody BEFORE you go in your pants, so we can help you get to the toilet. And if you go in your pants by accident, you need to tell somebody that, too, so we can help get you cleaned up, right?

M- (same tone as above): I made poop in my diaper!

Me (with one final wipe): Yes. Just like that. Thanks.

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