bug and the sweet banana

That's a fact, Jack. Fact. F-A-C-T.

It's always a good idea to check children's homework:

© Jennifer Linney | bug and the sweet banana
           Charm School
        Damn Misunderstanding
        An Angel Underneath, Innocent and Sweet  

well, this is awkward

Oh, what the heck. We might as well feature one more off-color post. Why not.

While driving home Tuesday afternoon, Connor piped up from the back seat, "It looks like the workers are almost done building that store, Daddy. It looks like it is going to be called 'Ducks.'"

That was my cue to pretend that I wasn't in the car. I'd let Jim field this whole conversation, that's what I'd do. I sat primly and quietly in the front passenger seat, eyes wide open, barely daring to breath for fear that the boys would notice me sitting there.

"Actually, Connor," Jim said, "It says 'Dick's.' The store is called 'Dick's Sporting Goods."
"Oh. Dick's Sporting Goods. I think it should be called 'Ducks and Dicks.'"

La-la-la, I sang in my mind. Not hearing this, not hearing this at all.

"'Ducks and Dicks,' huh?" Jim mused.

"Yup," Connor confirmed. And then, he asked, "What is a dick, anyway?"

Aaaand here we go. So not here, I thought to myself. I am so not here, hearing this conversation.

"Well," Jim—this parental unit's impromptu and unoffical spokesperson—started, "in this case, it is a man's name. But some people use the word as a name for a part of the body. But it is not a polite word for that body part."

"Oh." I could practically hear Connor blush. I didn't dare turn around to look. I didn't want to embarass him, nor did I want to get drawn into the conversation.

Talk turned to other topics, and Connor never asked which body part, and Jim didn't offer any more information than that. But, you know, thanks, sporting goods store, for the awkward conversation with our seven-year-old. Thanks.


        safe at home
        classic
        circle of confusion

one of -those- posts

"The vultures are circling," I said as we three drove home from Connor's school today. A committee of five vultures flew above ranchland that is home to longhorn cattle, a donkey, and a llama.

Best day ever—as far as farm-life-spotting goes—if you're, you know, into that, um, sort of thing, as I clearly seem to be: The time when I saw the donkey and the llama in a kicking-up-dust footrace. Good times, good times.

But back to the vultures.

"Oh, my gosh," Natalie, my Valley Girl Lost In Texas, said. "Those vultures are huge."

"They're as tall as your nips," Connor said.

Nips? He said hips, but it sounded like he said nips. I nearly burst with laughter.

"What are nips?" Natalie asked.

Just as I was about to say, "Hips, Natalie. Hips. The bones just below your waist," Connor said, "Like, you know, nipples? I didn't think that it would be appropriate to say 'nipples,' so I shortened it to a code word: Nips."

Nips? He said nips? He said nips. He's six! He has only  just lost his second tooth! He's still wild about me. Well, mostly. He said nips?

"Oh, ho! He said nips!" Natalie chortled and chuckled, beside herself. "That's. So. Funny."

Nips. He said nips. Damn vultures.


        he wows the crowd
        an angel underneath, innocent and sweet
        be decent
        classic

be decent

So. My son. Connor. You're familiar with him, yes? He's learning about early Native American culture this week at school and brought home a book that includes the words "tepee" and "wigwam." Connor showed the book to me and said, "We're learning about Native American culture. Some Native Americans had hoohas."

"Maybe you mean tepees? Wigwams. Wampum? Totems." I spurted desperately all of the similar such two-syllable words featuring consonance or assonance that I could dredge from the depths of my mind on such short notice.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Tepees," Connor conceded, unaware, I think (and hope), of the meaning of the slang that he had slung.

My little man's little slipup brought me right back to that summer day of my childhood when I announced at the dinner table, "I want a Chihuahua," but using the Italian slang word for, well, hooha, instead of "Chihuahua." And I didn't even know any Italian. It just kind of came out.

My father's appalled "What?!" still rings in my ears.

My son and I. We've come full circle.


        safe at home
        oo-chee oo-chee oo-chee
        charm school 
        circle of confusion

safe at home

Natalie sat on the kitchen floor, playing with her horses. She'd set up a whole dramatic scenario, complete with birthday parties, lost (and found) horses, and secrets among the horses, whom she named Ponzi and and Pokey and Connorstella. 

I, meanwhile, did what seems to be my life calling: I emptied the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Again. As always. It's what I do. And it has been what I do since I was in about sixth grade. We all have to be good at something, I reckon. And me? (I really do hate to brag.) I can really empty and load a dishwasher. There. I said it.

Music played on my iPad, and moments after we heard these lyrics:

Well, I put the bad out of my mind
And my memories are good:
The hardwood  floor 'neath your kitchen door
Where you taught me all your dirty words.
When we first made love under your ivory cross
It was a rainy Easter Sunday.
And we were drinking champagne in the Mulholland hills
When I  finally felt that stone roll away

Natalie piped up and asked, "Mommy? What does <wait for it . . . wait for it> 'ivory' mean?"

Whew.

So close.

I thought for sure that she wondered what "made love" meant. "Ivory" was so much easier to explain.

Dodged it.
© Jennifer Linney

YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
the artful dodge
circle of confusion
oo-chee oo-chee oo-chee
damn misunderstanding
eavesdroppings
charm school

oo-chee oo-chee oo-chee

So.

Connor.

My little nature child.

He soaks up books about wildlife. He loves nature documentaries, especially the BBC's Planet Earth, Life, Frozen Planet, and Nature series. My point being, he has seen images of wildlife mating. I'm not sure that he knows exactly what goes on during all of that mating, but he knows that the process is called "mating" and that baby animals come of it.

Cut to Scene I: Connor and I had a sweet little date at a coffeeshop, and while I waited for our drinks, he set off to nab a table. He staked a claim on one next to the window. And as we sat there, talking and drinking, we noticed two little sparrows, well, getting it on. The male sparrow flew-jumped atop the female, flapped his wings into quite a fury, and hopped back off. This happened for a good 10 minutes, many times in succession.

"They are mating," Connor informed me. "They wrestle to see which one is the strongest, and then that male gets to be a daddy."

I wasn't prepared to have The Sex Talk with Connor right then and there in the coffeeshop, so I didn't explain what the birds were actually doing or that the male head-butting ritual is what some animals do to decide who gets the girl and that the actual mating comes after the head-butting is all said and done.

But back to my point: Connor has seen wildlife getting down with its bad self.

And now, Scene II: Connor is playing in the backyard with the puppies. Liza and Holly spend hours stalking, chasing, tackling, and wrestling each other, and they go about it ferociously. Liza has suffered blunt force trauma to her eye twice now from all of their rough-and-tumble play. I call her Winky-Blinky. She looks plain pathetic with her mostly closed, teary eye, prescription ointment clouding her vision. She needs a helmet. And an eyepatch.

But back to Connor.

He races into the house, barely pausing to open the back door. "Mama!" He's doubled over with laughter. "Liza and Holly were playing 'Stalk and Capture,' and Liza caught Holly. She hugged Holly from behind and went like this: 'Oo-chee, oo-chee, oo-chee!'" My sweet innocent son thrust his hips back and forth, back and forth most disturbingly.

I sputter with laughter, and then, remembering that I'm the mother, I collect myself, and say with as much nonchalance as I can muster, "Oh. Yeah. Well, that's just how animals dominate each other. Like when bighorn sheep butt heads. Liza is showing Holly that she is the alpha."

"Well, Trouser is really the alpha," Connor says, "but she doesn't go 'oo-chee, oo-chee, oo-chee.'" Again with the thrusting.

"Right, right. You're right. Trousie is the alpha. She doesn't . . . she doesn't do that 'oo-chee, oo-chee' business because she shows her dominance other ways."

Connor makes his way toward the back door.

"Hey, Connor?"

"Yes?"

"Let's not do those 'oo-chee, oo-chees' anywhere else. Like at school. That'd get you in a whole lot of trouble. A visit-to-the-principal sort of trouble."

"OK." He giggles, "Oo-chee, oo-chee, oo-chee," as he stumbles back out the door.

I am now accepting applications for a sex-education teacher. Outsourcing The Talk, that's how I'm rolling.
© Jennifer Linney.
YOU'VE GOT TO READ THIS . . .
birds! land here!
tu parles français? oui?
he speaks the truth
'round and 'round it goes
in my shell, I will sleep

the trouble with friendly neighbors

I sat on the swing in the backyard with Natalie and Connor one evening last weekend while we waited for Jim to return home. Just as the natives began to get restless, we spotted Jim across the pond, driving by and waving.

"Daddy!" Connor and Natalie called.

Jim continued to wave. The little urchins waved wildly. A man walking past our house on the pond trail looked up, smiled at Connor and Natalie, and waved just as exuberantly.

Connor and Natalie, who had eyes for only Jim, kept waving and calling, "Daddy!" The man also continued waving.

I, meanwhile, suddenly found that dry, beige winter grass at my feet extraordinarily interesting, and I stared at it, seemingly intrigued, instead of explaining to the man that my children did not actually think that he was their father. (My voice doesn't carry well, and I just was not in the mood to make awkward efforts to relay this all to him across the way.)

Instead, I wondered if he was flipping through his mental Rolodex of names and faces, trying to attach an identity to the mysterious suburban mom who, seemingly, birthed his children.

Awkward.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

scrumbles

Natalie stood looking down, horrified at what she saw. "What are those, Mommy? Those scrumbles?"

"Scrumbles?" That's a word I've never heard.

"Right there." Natalie pointed to the veins on my bare feet. "Scrumbles."

I've never liked my feet, but I've always had more of a hideous-toe issue, not a concern about "scrumbles."

"Those, Natalie, are the tunnels that blood travels through. Those are veins," I explain.

"Oh," she said, unimpressed. "You should wear socks."
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

bartender, a cup of cheer, please

That snapshot of the Santa portrait in yesterday's post? That's there because I hauled Natalie back to the store yesterday to dart quickly inside, take Santa's photo, and skedaddle.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: There is no such thing as a "quick stop" when little ones are in tow.

Yesterday's shopping escapade: I snap a photo of the Santa portrait, not realizing that the fire extinguisher behind me is reflecting in the glass pane that covers the portrait. Only once I upload the photo do I see that St. Nick looks so very prepared should he get distracted while roasting chestnuts over an open fire.

While making tracks toward the store's exit, a metal bin with sparkly snowflakes painted on it catches my eye. Natalie and Connor are attending a friend's snowflake-themed birthday party on Saturday. Maybe the bin could serve as a tote of sorts for the gift I've purchased.

I struggle to wrest the bin free. It's handle, which stands upright, like the handle on a basket, reaches right to the bottom of the display shelf above it. I turn the snowflake bin on its side, and, as I finally have it in my clutches, the metal shelf that it was wedged under gives way. (The snowflake bin's handle, it seems, supported the left side of the shelf. Genius.)

Christmas decor falls to the floor. A metal angel: Decapitated. The star atop a ceramic Christmas tree: Shattered.

A sympathetic shopper at the other end of the aisle looks and yells, "Run! There's nothing to do now but run!"

Another shopper, whose sweatshirt bears the words NORTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OF LAW, says, "I saw what happened. You're not at fault. You're not liable."

Witnesses, I think to myself. Good.

I line up the fallen items on the floor, against the lowest shelf, placing the angel's head at her feet; the bits of the star, at the base of the tree. I wander off, Natalie's hand in mine, to find an employee to let him or her know, "Clean up. Aisle three."

I spot one restocking ornaments in the next aisle over and make my way toward her. Natalie, whose mood deteriorated rapidly an aisle or two ago when she mistook another woman for me and reached for her hand, pushes over a six-foot-tall Christmas tree. No warning. No tantrum as a preamble. She just steps up, extends her arms, and gives it the old heave-ho.

(Full disclosure: It was a purple Christmas tree, so it kind of had that coming. But, still, no "Timber!" crankypants?)

Thank goodness there were no ornaments or lights on the tree. There were, however, two dozen other Christmas trees in its path, some forest green, one hot pink, one lime green, one bright orange.) As I scurry to stop a domino effect, I have visions of a store manager escorting us out. Again.

I upright the purple tree and scold Natalie, all the while avoiding eye contact with the older couple watching me but pretending to look at ornaments. I tell the store employee, "There's broken glass, it seems, in the next aisle," and Natalie and I take our long overdue leave.

As we skulk home, listening to Michael Bublé sing White Christmas, I realize that I had put down the snowflake bin while keeping the Christmas trees from toppling and had forgotten about it completely. Ain't that the way they say it goes.

About those trees: Purple? Hot pink? Lime green? And bright orange Christmas trees? Just where do I shop?
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

he wows the crowd

Natalie, Connor, and I hustled into the bathroom at a department store and huddled together in the largest stall available, each of us needing to go more urgently than the others.

"Go ahead, Connor. You've got dibs," I said as I silently cursed the absence of a hook and looked for a spot to put my purse, other than the grimy floor.

Connor dropped trou, stood at the toilet, and went at it.

"Wow, Connor!" Natalie said, looking on (and not for the first time, mind you.) "That is an amazing trick! How do you do that!"

Sometimes, there just are no words.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

pumpkin patch punkery

Outdoor activities were risky undertakings when we lived in Virginia—in our front yard, anyway. It boasted two tall, old walnut trees, and come cool weather, the trees would drop walnuts, the sticky, green orbs dropping to the grass with a thud, sometimes leaving divots in the lawn.

We never wanted to be on the wrong patch of grass during walnut-pulmetting season.
The neighborhood squirrels loved the walnuts, and the squirrels, too, created divots in the yard as they buried the walnuts for leaner times.

It didn't take long for me and Connor to develop the tradition of wandering out into the yard as evening set in, collecting walnuts, and seeing how far we could throw them while we listened for the train that carried Jim home to pull into the station a mile or so away.

October 2007

Now that we're in Texas, horse apples are the ball-like tree-droppings in abundance. The squirrels like them, and Natalie and Connor do, too.

We call them horse apples, but they also answer to osage oranges, hedge apples, bois d'arcs. They're heavy and measure about five-inches in diameter. The surface looks as if it is covered with thin, bright-green worms. Those squiggly things—called drupes by people more scientific than me—contain a sticky, sticky juice.
And horse apples, they float.

We know this because neither Connor nor Natalie can resist the urge to toss a fallen one into the pond whenever we happen by.

(I'm not sure that is entirely environmentally friendly, and I try to discourage the tossing by calling, "You'll frighten the fish, scare the turtles!" Sometimes my plea works. And sometimes it doesn't.)
Here we are on one such outing. Miss Natalie inspects the horse apple for ants.It'll do, she decides.
It's nastier than she thought.
All of this leads me—via a very twisty-turny, out-of-the-way route—to last weekend. A few hours after Natalie's party, we four made our annual pilgrimage to the pumpkin patch.
Natalie declared several pumpkins "purf-tech" and then selected a pie pumpkin, the largest pumpkin she could lift. Then, she wandered around, looking at gourds and bales of hay, scarecrows and a koi pond.

Just moments after I drew the parallel between the pie pumpkin and horse apples and muttered, "She's going to throw that in the pond," there was a splash, a scattering of koi, and a bobbing pumpkin just beyond a sign that read:

And it was all courtesy of our little pumpkin chucker.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

it's mine. all mine.

I haven't got a name for my fumbling, bumbling alter ego—the one who once tossed trash from the car into the garage bins, along with her car keys—but I'm thinking that she needs one.

She has accomplished far too much to continue nameless. She places the Slip 'n' Slide on fire ant piles. She crushes dreams and squashes desires like no one's business. She sets up her daughter for wardrobe malfunctions. She makes questionable word choices. She
shops horrifically. And after yesterday's debacle, it is clear that it is high time that she had a name.

Yesterday, fatigue sneaked up on me. I felt like I used to feel during those four-in-the-morning nursings when Connor was wide awake and Ready to Get This Day Started! and I struggled to keep my spinning, twirling, so-desperate-for-sleep eyes open.

I consider brewing a cup of coffee, but the thought of slipping into the syrupy goodness of a nap trumped that cup of get-up-and-go.

And, wouldn't you know? Luck was on my side: Natalie announced that she was tired. "Is it nappytime?" she asked, hopeful.

Hotdiggitydog. It is.

I set the alarm on my phone to wake us at 2:30, so we would have time to wake and freshen up before we fetch Connor from school at three o'clock. And then, we two girls snuggle in for a long autumn nap.

At some point, I drift reluctantly from sleep. Hmm. It's been a while. It's probably about time to wake up. The responsible me suggests that I check the time: "I'd hate to be late picking up Connor from school," she says, wagging her finger at me. The exhausted me says, "Dude. You set an alarm. Sleep."

And because the tired mind is a persuasive mind, I nestle back into my heap of covers and fall asleep to the tst-tst-tst sound of Natalie sucking her wee little thumb. I wake next to the sound of my phone thump-thump-thumping a guitar riff. I'm cuddling my cheek against Natalie's bare foot. And I know—I just know (with quite a bit of dread)— who is on the line.

"Hello?" My voice has that undeniable "Yeah. I've been sleeping. What of it?" sound to it.

"Mrs. Linney? This is the elementary school. Connor is here with me and—"

I glance at the clock. 3:17. 3:17! Technology failed me all day yesterday, so it stands to reason that the alarm that I had set would take a pass, too.

"Oh, goodness!" (For the record, that is not the word that I wanted to use. At all.) And, of course, in my dreamy nappytime delirium, I feel the need to explain—no, confess: "I fell asleep."

Honesty might be a lonely word, and honesty might be the best policy, but blah-bitty-blah-blah-blah. I really could have kept that little tidbit about falling asleep to myself.

"I'll be right there," I say. Now I'm awake.

I scoop Natalie from the bed. "We have to pick up Connor," I explain.

"Huh? Connor?" She's confused. She puts her thumb back in her mouth and falls asleep on my shoulder.

I race toward the garage and race just as quickly back to the bedroom, when I chuck off my slippers and step into my shoes. Then, it's back toward the garage.

"See you soon, Trouser. We have to go."

Again with the unnecessary statements. Trouser looks up at me from the sunny spot on the kitchen floor. She's all drowsy-eyed and rumply of fur. If she had thought bubbles, this one would read, "Really? You couldn't just slip out quietly?"

The route out of our neighborhood seems painstakingly indirect, and, of course, the longest. freight train. ever. slithers leisurely across the very tracks that I need to cross to reach Connor's school.

"Timing!" I holler to the train gods.

We jounce over the tracks as soon as the gates rise up. I skip the part where I say, "Ge-de-ge-de-gump," like I do when we drive over bumpy train tracks. I zip closer and closer to the school, but then slow to a torturous crawl in the 20 mph school zone.

Parking is no trouble at this hour. I have my choice of spots along the curb right in front of the school. (Yay, me.)

And then, I do what can only be described as the parenting equivalent of the Walk of Shame.

Connor has his face pressed to the glass wall of the office. A teacher walks out of the office and just stands there in the lobby, looking at me as I struggle to heave open the ridiculously heavy doors, which, I'm convinced, are filled with lead. The secretaries, both of them, look up. And the teacher sitting with Connor? She just looks at me. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't return my weak smile. She just looks.

That coveted Mother of the Year award? This year, it's mine. I have clinched it, baby.

©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

burn one, take it through the garden, and pin a rose on it

I'm all about colorful language—not purple prose, mind you—but lingo. Short-order cooks and greasy-spoon waitresses long ago cornered the market on industry-specific lingo. A "mother and child reunion," anyone? (That's a chicken and egg sandwich.) Or howza 'bout a "cowboy with spurs"? (And that's a western omelet with fries.) As for "burn one, take it through the garden, and pin a rose on it," that's a hamburger with lettuce, tomato, and onion.

The publishing world, I learned early in my editing career, can hold its hold when it comes to lingo. I loved working in an environment where phrases like "over the transom" and "put the issue to bed" and "hold your nose and publish" were tossed about in everyday conversation. We also talked regularly about widows and orphans and tombstones, as well as buried heads and floating heads.

Good, colorful stuff.

When Jim and I first met, he liked the expression "hold your nose and publish" so much that when he saw this little guy in a boutique in Old Town Alexandria, he knew that I needed it for my office.I'm yammering on and on about all of this because this post right here? It is so totally a "hold your nose and publish" post, if only because I generally stay away from discussion of well, delicate matters, let's say. I use the word "generally" because I have discussed this and this and, well, this, too.

Anyhow. This post. Let's get to it.

Natalie sidestepped toward the bathroom, announcing, "Oop! I need to poo."

"Go ahead and get started," I told her, balancing an overflowing laundry basket on one hip. "I'll be there in just a minute."

Natalie scampered off, and I joined her in the bathroom moments later.

"How's it going?" I asked as I sat down on a step stool.

"Oh, I'm all done," Natalie told me.

"Already? Just pee, I guess, then?"

"No, no. Thunder and rain. Thunder and rain go together just like poo and pee. I had thunder and rain."

Like I said, hold your nose and publish (but stop pinching your nose long enough to applaud that colorful language). Color your world, baby girl.
Hungry for more diner lingo? Look here.
For editorspeak, click on "Design Problems to Avoid" on this page.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

oh, the mulch between my toes

I found myself explaining to another mom the other day why I dread summertime visits to the playground.

(I know, Autumn, I know. Stop tugging at my sleeve. The calendar says that you arrived at 5:05 this morning. Welcome back, beloved season! But I have to ask: Where is your crisp air? Your deep blue skies? You know, weather that lets me wear a cardigan? I'm all about the cardigan.)

Autumn may have arrived, but this is our forecast for the next several days:Hot. (Still.) And dry. (Still.)

What was I writing about? Right. The playground during the summer: There's the sun glaring down, making any horizontal surface feel like a cookie sheet that's just been taken from the oven. There's the mulch—and my inability to remember to wear closed-toe shoes to the playground. And there's the fact that my children seem impervious to the heat and the sun's rays and the discomfort of a Texas summer. They don't notice their mother, glistening, wilting, withering, melting, and shaking mulch from her shoes.

So, I explained all of this to the other mom, sounding as if I had given it a whole lot of thought—and as if I were a real killjoy of  a mom. But, really, all it amounts to is, I don't like to take my children to the playground in the summer heat.

A few weeks ago, we had a brief break from our string of 70-some-odd days with temperatures of 100 degrees or higher. When I noticed that the temp had dipped way down to the upper-80s, Natalie, Trouser, and I saddled up and made tracks for the playground.

No one else was there, so I looked over one shoulder and then the other, and, seeing that that the coast was clear, I untied Trouser's leash from the park bench and let her join Natalie on the equipment. (Nobody tell the HOA.)

Natalie and Trouser had a blast on the slide together, taking turns and smiling big time.

It's been a while since Trouser has played on a slide, and she was as happy as a clam at high tide.

A few more posts about autumn:
autumn's best
crunch crunch shuffle shuffle crunch crunch
the air out there
evening constitutional
And, sweet old girl, a post that features (among other things) Trouser's favorite piece of playground equipment: the slide.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

spring chicken

We celebrated Connor's graduation from pre-k with lunch at one of his favorite restaurants: Babe's Chicken Dinner House, where the only items served are fried chicken and chicken fried steak, with sides of mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and homemade biscuits.
Don't let the name "Babe's" fool you. It's a family restaurant in a quaint little town.The waitresses dress modestly and serve RC Cola and sweet tea. They dance, but only to The Hokey Pokey. And they call patrons "hon" and "darling" and "sugar." It's wholesome. And tasty. (But a fire marshall's nightmare.)

Gramma came in from out of town for Connor's graduation, and that morning, Connor pulled her aside and said, "Now, Gramma. I'd like to go to Babe's for lunch, but you're old and you might feel uncomfortable there. We can go someplace else if you like."

Gramma assured Connor that she would be just fine at Babe's. And she was. She wasn't even the oldest person there.My dear darling offspring has been ragging on Gramma about her age for years. Take a peek at a spade a spade and chivalrous 'til the end. Shameless.
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

classic

Natalie and I set out on Friday to find a shirt Connor to wear for his school photo. We walked the outdoor shopping area, past stores and parked cars, including a 1965 Mustang. (I knew it was a 1965 Mustang only because the license plate—65STANG—told me so.)

Natalie gasped, "Look! A classic car!"

Half a moment later, an older couple walked by, hand in hand. Natalie gasped again and said, "And classic people!"
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

with thanks to vivian and kit

Let me just preface this by saying that I would have never have thought that a movie about a prostitute living the fairy tale would offer up so many quotes that are applicable to parenting, but, well, here we go again.

I'm talking Pretty Woman, of course, and characters Vivian Ward  and Kit DeLuca's hooker mantra: "We say who, we say when, we say how much."

That little sentence? That has sneaked its way into our toilet-training efforts, very effectively, I might add: Natalie has had a few nighttime accidents, and in trying to teach her that she is in control of her pee, one night I heard myself say, "Remember, Natalie, you say where, you say when, right? You say where: the toilet. And you say when: once you are on the toilet. That's your where and your when. If your body wakes you up and tells you that it needs to pee, be sure to tell your body to wait until . . . "

". . .until I sit on the toilet!" Natalie says, finishing my little speech.

"That's right! You say where, you say when."

Parenting with the help of hooker mantras. Yeah. That's how we're rolling.

For more Pretty Woman encounters bug and the sweet banana, see these:

• Connor swipes Vivian Ward's "slippery little sucker" line.
• I declare myself a safety girl.
• And, well, I hook.

 
©Jennifer Linney. All Rights Reserved.

mumpish

Natalie stared and stared at a little girl. Finally, she jerked her chin toward the girl, looked at me with big eyes, and asked, "Why does she have the mumps?'

I knew exactly why Natalie asked.

The little girl wore a headband with a big old bow on her head. She looked quite a bit like Little Bear does in an episode where he, his friend Emily, and her doll, Lucy, all come down with the mumps and each wears a compress to try to relieve the pain. 
I explained that, although it looked like the little girl was wearing what Little Bear wears when he has the mumps, the girl didn't have the mumps. "She is just wearing a very pretty hair bow," I told Natalie.

A day or so later, Natalie sat on the swing with me, whispering to her doll and giving it some love.

 
"Is everything OK with your doll?" I asked, when Natale's mood took a turn for sullen.

"Yes," she sighed solemnly. "My baby has the mumps."

bonked. crunched. and leaking.

I've heard it said that each person has their own best way of communicating: Some people speak better than they write. Some write better than they speak. Some express themselves best through artwork. Others do best with lyrics and music. Some find their voice in dance. But everyone, everyone, has their own best way.

Me? I fall into the "Writes Better Than Speaks" category.  My elementary school report cards always noted, "Expresses ideas well in writing," and that always made me wonder: Is the inverse true? Do I express ideas poorly in speech?

Maybe.

I've always known that I am more writer than speaker. I just wish I didn't feel so compelled to prove it to myself over and over (and over) again.

Read this. ↓ You'll see what I mean.

On Tuesday, Natalie went to some friends' house to play. Natalie and her three-year-old friend, Hallie, and Hallie's four-year-old sister, Harper, were sitting at the kitchen table drawing with markers and crayons when someone rang the doorbell frantically and pounded on the front door.

Hallie and Harper's mom, Ashley, answered the door and found a police officer standing there on the doorstep. One of her first thoughts: Something dreadful has happened to her husband. Thankfully, that wasn't the case.

What was the case, the police officer explained, was that one of Ashley's neighbors had collided with my vehicle while backing out of her driveway. (I had parallel parked on the street across from the woman's home.) She damaged my vehicle's rear quarter panel and did a number on her own car. The police officer knew where to find me because I had left a scrap of paper in my vehicle with Ashley's address written on it.

I followed the police officer to the scene, where the neighbor and I exchanged insurance info and melted under the hot Texas sun. Soon after, I returned to Ashley's house, and then Natalie and I went on our little way.

While we drove off to get lunch and then pick up Connor from school, Natalie must have asked 30, 35 times in succession, "Why did that lady bonk our truck, Mama?" and "Why did our truck get crunched, Mama?"

And each and every time, I explained, "She mustn't have been paying attention while she backed out of her driveway."

And each and every time, Natalie asked, "Why? Why wasn't she paying attention?"

And each and every time, I said, "She just wasn't focusing, I suppose."

And then, the line of questioning began again:  "Why did that lady bonk our truck, Mama? Why did our truck get crunched, Mama?"

By the time I coaxed Natalie into napping that afternoon, the words "bonked" and "crunched" were just burned on my brain.When it came time for me to call the insurance company, I began the conversation with: "I need some claims assistance. A woman bonked my vehicle and crunched it."

"Um, say again?" the insurance agent said.

"My vehicle, it got bonked, and the rear quarter panel, it's crunched."

Only once those words tumbled out of my mouth the second time did I realize that I was no longer talking to inquisitive Miss Natalie. (Seriously, Jennifer? "Bonked"? And "crunched"?)

"What I mean to say," I recovered, "is a woman collided with my parked vehicle this morning. It's been damaged."

Sadly, claiming that my vehicle had been bonked and crunched was nothing—nothing, I say—compared to the time I told Trouser's vet—an older man with a nasal voice who always said, "Hi, Trrrrr-ousers"—that, ahem, Trouser was "leaking from her girlie parts."

"Do you mean to say that Trouser has some vaginal discharge?" Dr. Hart asked, unamused.

"Yes! Precisely," I said, pointing. "That is exactly what I mean."

One word: Hu-mil-i-at-ing.

So, yeah, I definitely—most definitely—fall into the "Writes Better than Speaks" column. Without a doubt.

Bonked? Crunched? Leaking from her girlie parts? Eesh.

circle of confusion

Jim tried to get Natalie to smile: "Let's see your pretty smile," he said.

Nothing."Oh, smile, so we can see your dimples," he tried again.

She still wouldn't budge.

Connor misunderstood, but tried anyway, "Smile, Natalie, so we can see your nipples."

He got me to smile, anyway. (Jim would call what I did a loud guffaw-cackle-sputter, but, hey, I smiled while doing it, and that's all that matters.)

The conversation went south from there, as Jim tried to explain dimples to Connor.

"Dimples are little pockets that form on your cheeks when you smile. Little circles. Little dents. You have dimples, Connor," Jim told him."And Ms. Lila," ←not her real name, "has big ones," I chirped.

Only after the words fell out of my mouth did I realize how bad it would be—how really, really bad it would be—if Connor never caught on to the word "dimples" and one day told Ms. Lila, "Hey, Ms. Lila, Mama says you have big nipples."

Good times around the Linney dinner table. Good times.

The good news is that Natalie smiled eventually, showing us her dimples.

wrinkling time

How I know that I'm aging, some days more rapidly than others:

Natalie told me, "Oh, Mama. You have lines on your face."

gizza-guh-ba!

Years ago—like, 14 years ago—The Washington Post published a little essay I wrote about sneezing. In the article, I questioned the whole ritual of saying, "Bless you," when someone sneezes. 

To me—back then and, still, now—offering blessings to someone when they sneeze is just odd. Think about any other bodily function—a hiccup, a burp, a cough, a "toot," as Natalie and Connor call it—the person whose body emits the hiccup/cough/burp/toot says, "Excuse me." Or should, anyway.

Why should a sneeze be any different? Why is that whole sneeze-bless-you-thank-you exchange even necessary? Just cover your nose, grab a tissue, sneeze, say, "Excuse me," and be done with it.

(Just between you and me, I think I'm just a little bit passionate about the subject.)

In the Post article, I shared that my college roommate and I did away with all of that "bless you" business and took to acknowledging sneezes with random phrases instead.

Expressions like "Jumping Jehoshaphat!" and "Good gravy!" and "Have a nice day."

Yeah. We were cool like that.

 .
I blush now at the silliness of the article and how it is out there. I can't take it back. I can't delete it. I can't hide it. It's out there. (And so, what do I do? I share a copy of it on my blog. Confounding, to say the least.)

That whole "say something other than 'bless you'" ritual followed me into marriage and motherhood: When we sneeze, Jim and I say things like "Gizza-guh-ba!" and "Sweet boogity-woogity!" and Natalie and Connor laugh and laugh. We like the spontaneous silliness that sneezes spawn.Tonight, just as I finished putting Natalie and Connor down for the night, I walked out of Natalie's room and sneezed a sneeze to end all sneezes.

Isn't it fitting—juuuuuuust fitting—that Natalie and Connor called from their separate rooms, in unison, "Bless you, Mama!"

Hmph.

Jim and I can raise our two little offspring as we see fit—teaching them to say "please" and "thank you," "yes, sir" and "no, thank you, ma'am," introducing them to rituals and traditions and starting new ones with them—but we sure can't shelter them from the ways of the world. And so, they have learned from teachers and grandparents and babysitters and neighbors that when someone sneezes, you say, "Bless you" or "God bless you."

Still, I stand by my way of doing things, even as I sit here with two little ones running about blessing each others' bodily functions. 

I'll bring them around to my way of thinking, I just know it. In the meantime, I've got to say, I dig their manners.

in his clutches

Back in high school, I wrote an essay explaining the difference between a lady and a woman. I had a blast writing the essay, and I suppose it showed: My English teacher asked to keep it to use as an example for classes to come.

Man, how I wish I had kept it for myself.

I remember that one section went a little something like this:

A lady crosses her ankles and clasps her hands in her lap. She says 'please' and 'thank you' and nods politely, keeping her opinions to herself.

A woman sits any which way she pleases, but always dignified. She is confident and is not afraid to express her opinions, even if they differ from those of the company she keeps.

Parents hosting guests for dinner might remind their daughter, "And darling? Please? Be a lady tonight." They won't ever say, "And please, dear, be a woman tonight." Behaving like a woman just might liven up a stuffy old dinner party, but guests expecting a lady-like "yes, ma'am/no, ma'am" kind of daughter might leave astonished.

All that is to say that this post, it ain't for ladies. And Connor, in 10 years, I hope your 15-year-old self forgives me.

And so, with that little disclaimer, off we go.

Connor wandered into the kitchen, hand on his pants, right about over his, er, dangling bits.

"Do you need to use the bathroom, Connor?" I asked, glancing at him.

"No, I'm fine," he replied. He stood there for half a minute watching me "cook" something that resembled "dinner," and then, he just took the reins and held a conversation with me, entirely without me:

"'Then why are you holding your penis, Connor?'

'Because I like holding my penis, Mama.'

'Are you sure you don't need to use the bathroom?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'So . . . why are you holding your penis?'

'I just like holding my penis! And my scrotum!'" he added for good measure.

And he walked off with a confident, lopsided grin on his face.

So, there we have it. I imagine it only gets better from here.

damn misunderstanding

Connor kept asking yesterday when Jim would be home. I didn't know, so I suggested he call to find out.

So he did.

And Jim said, "Soon, buddy, soon. I'm stuck in a bit of a traffic jam."

A while later, Connor wandered over and said, a bit timidly, "Mama? I'd like to know what 'damn' means."

Where that came from—and why I assumed he meant "damn" and not "dam"—is beyond me. What an easier conversation it would have been if I had just explained that a dam is something that beavers and sometimes people build to block the flow of water. My blue-eyed boy and I could have had a lovely conversation about the Hoover Dam and Boulder Dam and Grand Coulee Dam. And we could have talked about how and why beavers build dams.

But, noooo. I silently cursed the fact that I was in the hot seat—"silently," because I didn't want to explain a whole different swear word—and I said, "Well, Connor, 'damn' isn't a nice word. It is not very respectful. It's something that people might say when they mean to say, 'Gosh darn it' or, like Gramma says, 'Fiddlesticks.' It's just not a nice word, and it certainly isn't a word that you should say," I added.

"Oh," Connor replied. His little brain was processing, calculating, figuring it all out, I just knew it.

He turned and looked out the window and then said, "But I can say it when I'm talking about a traffic jam, right?"

"A traffic jam?"

And then, it clicked. Connor had asked me to explain "jam," not "damn." Curses.

That would have been another totally different conversation.

 
©2011, Jennifer Linney.

 

an angel underneath, innocent and sweet

We spent our Thanksgiving in El Paso, visiting Jim's parents, who are known as Nana and Grandpa to Natalie and Connor. Yesterday evening, after all the turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing muffins had been eaten, Connor corralled us all into his grandparents' living room for a concert.

He had been preparing for such an event: Before we left home for the 10-hour drive to his grandparents' house, Connor made sure that I had laundered and packed his "concert shirt."He spent Thanksgiving afternoon drawing a seating chart for the concert: 
And he recruited his 13-year-old cousin Brittany to play her French horn.

This was The Big Time—and his biggest audience yet.

Come concert time, Connor turned off all the lights and propped some flashlights on the piano, illuminating the stars of the evening. 
El Paso Connection
 
Connor and Natalie sat on the piano bench, banging out tunes—more "banging out" than "tunes"—while Connor regaled us with his vocals. He started with some Jack Johnson songs and then moved on to Bob Schneider.

  
El Paso Connection

And then it was audience-participation time. Connor announced that he would shine a flashlight on someone who would then have to play a tune on the piano. First up was his Aunt Kristal, who played Mary Had a Little Lamb. I played Song From the Wigwam, the only song I really ever liked from my beginner's piano book of songs. Connor's Uncle Tom played a jaunty little tune that I couldn't quite place, and then Brittany did some French horn solos.

After a brief intermission—prompted by the main act's stepping off the stage inexplicably—Connor returned to his seat at the piano and belted out, "I hate the world today!"

Such a pronouncement from such a young man, I thought, startled. And then realization crept in, holding horror's hand.

Connor was singing Meredith Brooks' Bitch.
Curses.

I'm thinking that it just might be high time to isolate some Connor- and Natalie-safe songs on my iPod. Just a thought. 

droopy drawers

So, it turns out that the swimsuit I bought Natalie isn't a swimsuit. It is a bodysuit that looks an awful lot like a swimsuit.

At the end of spring, I set out to find a red swimsuit for Natalie. That was my one requirement: It had to be red. I went online to all my usual sources.

I found this little number at Gymboree:

 

"Soft and sweet," the listing stated. "Keep your cherry baby comfy in our cotton interlock tank one-piece. Crochet trim and cherry appliqué on front add pretty detail to darling dots. Cute ruffly skirt adds a little flounce."

Red. Cherries. One piece. Flouncy little skirt. Sold!

I skimmed right over the part that stated that the material was cotton interlock.

"How interesting," I thought, when the "swimsuit" arrived by UPS. "Heavy material for a swimsuit. But, no matter!" I shook off that itty-bitty bit of doubt. "It's red! And there are cherries!"

I began to have suspicions that something was wrong when the "swimsuit" got all sorts of droopy during our first visit to the pool.

 
I went back to the Gymboree site and noticed that the "swimsuit" wasn't listed under the swimwear catagory. It was listed with dresses and one-pieces. In-ter-esting, as Connor would say.

I asked Jim if he had any doubts that the "swimsuit" was a swimsuit.

"If you can see the crotch," the ever quotable Jim said, "it's a swimsuit."

True.

I'd assume that the attached skirt on a bodysuit would be longer to cover the baby's bottom. Besides, as my friend Meredith pointed out, was I to pair the "swimsuit" with a pair of shorts? It certainly didn't look like a complete outfit on its own, at least not for a 20-month-old. For a two-, three-, or four-month-old, yes. But not for a 20-month-old.

And then, my neighbor Karen pointed out that swimsuits generally don't have buttons at the crotch.

<Oh, how I hate having the word "crotch" on my beloved blog. Is there an uglier looking or sounding word? Crotch. Nothing redeeming about it. Sadly, this isn't the first time "crotch" has appeared. Or the second.)

Still, I had my doubts. I e-mailed Gymboree: "Silly question: Is item #140062594 (skirted one-piece) a swimsuit?"

A Gymboree representative named Mallory replied, "The Dot Skirted One-Piece is a onesie with a skirt attached."

Suspicions confirmed. I imagined Mallory snickering as she stiffled her laughter.

"We also have swimwear available," she wrote, "and we would be more than happy to help you find an item."

 
I, evidently, needed all the help I could get.

Natalie now has two other true bathing suits, which I found all on my own, I might add.

 


 
That's not to say we have stopped using the red cherry "swimsuit" as a swimsuit. 

 
We wear it proud.

 
Droopy.

 

But proud.

 

© 2010, Jennifer Linney.

 

 

of nursery rhymes and loose women

Certain things I've always expected to talk about with Connor and Natalie. Like, for example, why the caterpillar that Connor found this afternoon and placed in his sandbox with a few leaves ("ripped up nice and small, Mama, so they aren't choking hazards") won't survive long. And why we shouldn't touch anything in public restrooms. And why thunder sounds like a giant dump truck dropping a load of boulders.

But prostitutes? That was a discussion I never expected to have with a four-year-old. And yet, there I was this morning, wondering how to tell Connor, without inviting too many questions, that he shouldn't say the word "whore."

But let me back up a minute.

Connor is going through a phase lately, if you can call it that, where he switches out words to songs. So, for example, on Sunday, "Row, row, row your boat/Gently down the stream" became "Row, row, row your raft/Gently through the swamp."

Harmless and silly. Sometimes the substitutions make sense. A lot of the time, they don't.

This morning, I counted out loud as I placed cut-up grapes on Natalie's tray: "One, two, three, four. Who's that knocking at my door?"

Connor, who was scampering around the kitchen naked when he should have been getting dressed, chimed in, "Five, six, seven, eight. Don't forget to close the gate." 

I counted out more grapes: "One, two, three, four."

And Connor jumped in and said, "Who's that knocking up my whore?"

Hear the needle scratch the record. Or the mp3 just, well, stop.

I collected my thoughts and didn't let on that Connor had said something a four-year-old shouldn't. I was about to ask him what he said, but he continued dancing around the kitchen, chanting, "One, two, three, four! Who's that knocking at my door? Who's that knocking up my four? Who's that knocking down my nore? Who's that knocking through my bore?"

I realized then that, of course, he didn't know the word "whore" and that he was simply going through the alphabet trying different rhymes for "door." In his mind, Connor had said "hore," not "whore," which, like the rest of the rhymes he'd made, was just a nonsense word.

The "knocking up" phrase, I let pass on by without mention, hoping that by not drawing attention to it, I wouldn't make it stand out in Connor's mind as something to say if he wants to get my ire up.

Years down the road, though, he might be part horrified, part amused to learn that I told my dad of my pregnancy with Connor by saying (with a mock dripping-with-molasses Southern accent), "Oh, Daddy. I done got knocked up."

© 2010, Jennifer Linney.

 

chivalrous 'til the end

We went to dinner with friends while Gramma was in town a few weeks ago. There were eight of us, so the restaurant sat us at a horseshoe-shaped booth.

At the end of the meal, Gramma, who had been sitting dead center at the curve of the horseshoe, scooted out of the booth bit by bit by excruciating bit.

Ever the gentleman, Connor reached for her hand as she neared the end of the booth and said, "Come on, you old lady."

 
© 2010, Jennifer Linney.

 

charm school

It seems Jim and I need to work on Natalie's pronunciation of "grass," because right now, when she wants to go outside, she walks around saying, "Ass? Ass? Ass?"

Someone's bound to take offense.

 

(Natalie is a fine complement to her brother, who, for the longest time, had trouble with the word "sock.")

Casa de Linney: Teaching children proper, polite language since 2006.

© 2010, Jennifer Linney.

 

eavesdroppings

Heard at our house this evening: "When I come back in there, I want to see you rubbing that koala bear all over your dirty little body!"

First of all: What kind of household do I run, exactly?

Second: Who knew koalas were so, er, frisky?

Third: Connor got dusty and dirty in the backyard. He had a washcloth with a koala bear on it. He was more interested in "swimming" in the tub than cleaning his body.

I laid down the law. Or made the neighbors gasp.

© 2010, Jennifer Linney.

note to self

Do not do not do not not not leave girlie underthings strewn about.

Your resourceful three-year-old son will use them as sails on the laundry basket he likes to pretend is a fishing boat.

"Hoist the sails!" I believe, are the words he used.

sock it to me one more time

We had another sock incident today. You know the type.

Connor finished his oatmeal and needed to get dressed for preschool. He found his way out of his pajamas quickly but then pranced around the kitchen naked long enough to make me chilly. It was crisp here this morning: fog on the lake, chilly morning air in the house. Add to that a naked three-year-old, and I turned into one big goosebump.

I reminded Connor that he needed to put on his clothes, and he half danced, half ran from the kitchen to the living room and back again. He stopped at the chair where I'd placed his clothing, so I relaxed, figuring he'd dress now and that we'd make it out the door in time to avoid the train- and school-zone delays that always seem to foil my attempts to get to the school at a decent time.

I busied myself with feeding Trouser, looking up only when Connor said the five strangest words that a mother could hear: "Look, Mama. Here's my penis."

And there stood Connor before me, with a blue sock—which, on an ordinary day, would extend from the tips of his toes mid-way up his calf—on his dangling bits. Connor swayed in place, with his hips thrust and the sock moving to and fro quite like an elephant's trunk, so very proud of himself.

And I was worried about trains and school zones.

I'd post a photo, but . . . well . . . no.