Toddler Conversations III

What Else is Dangerous?

Who: Norah, Ryan, Me
Where: In the car

N: I want out of my seat!
H: No, Honey, that's dangerous.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Huh?
N: What else is dangerous?
H: I don't know... running with a sucker in your mouth.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Um. Jumping off the bed.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Ah... crossing the street without Mommy or Daddy.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Playing with cleaning stuff.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: I don't know. Ask Daddy.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Playing with knives.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Being in the bathtub alone.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Uhh... swimming too soon after eating.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Driving too fast.
N: What else is dangerous?

40 minutes later

N: What else is dangerous?
H: Punching tigers.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Swimming with sharks and having an open wound.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Roxette.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Bungee jumping with no bungee.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Chuck Norris.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Messing around with Jim.
N: What else is dangerous?
H: Bad, bad Leroy Brown.
N: What else is dangerous?
R: Oh my God, we're home.

Sports

Who: Norah and Me
Where: My room

N: Look! A tennis racket!
H: That's a badminton racket.
N: It's not a bad mitten. It's a good mitten.

Art

Who: Norah, Susan, Papa, Nana, Me
Where: Minneapolis Institute of Arts

H: Look at that puma statue. What's it eating?
N: A rabbit! We don't eat rabbits.

Norah gets in it's face and holds out a finger.

N: Naughty!

Beverages

Who: Norah and me
Where: In the car

N: Look! Look! A Coke truck!
H: Yeah, look at that.
N: You love Coke!
H: That's right.
N: But Daddy doesn't like Coke.
H: What kind of truck would Daddy like?
N: Beer truck.

It's Story Time: The Potty Chair

This story is original. I wrote it last night. I will publish it in its entirety here, on this site, for all of you.

The pros of using a potty chair.

The cons.

Food Pyramid Be Gone!

If you haven't heard, the government bid adieu to the food pyramid and created the sexy new food plate.

Finally, that pesky pyramid was put in its place. I couldn't make headnertails of that confounded structure.

Better get started...

But I thought I'd take this opportunity to compare my normal food plate to that of Michelle Obama's.

Oh. That explains a lot.

Santa Comes to MN

Last Friday, Santa came to Sauk Rapids, MN. This is where my friend Sara lives with her husband and two kids, one of which is Norah's BFF, Samantha, aka Minta. A few other kids came, too.

The kids were playing in the toy room downstairs when they heard jingle bells and a hearty "Ho ho ho!" The older kids thundered up the stairs immediately. Norah and Samantha froze.

"Ho ho ho!"

Norah looked at me with terror in her eyes. Samantha started to cry.

Some of the adults called from upstairs, "Santa's here!" and "Come meet Santa!" Norah looked at me, and backed away slowly, back into the toy room. Samantha clung to her dad. "Me scared."

"Norah," I said gently, "You can go tell Santa what you want for Christmas."

She hesitated. Then she walked to the stairs and screamed, "I want a drum!" Then retreated back to the toy room.

Now, I wasn't shocked or anything. Neither of the girls wanted anything to do with Santa last year either. As far as they knew, he was the personification of Stranger Danger decked out in red. Even though they both revere Santa in cartoons and books, and understand that this underemployed recluse is the giver of toys and presents, in person, he's terrifying for some reason.

A little voice in my head was telling me to be a good mom. Don't force her. It's not a big deal. A larger voice was telling me to haul her butt upstairs and plop her down on Santa's lap. She'll love it once she gets over the initial fear. Uncle Dan is doing us a huge solid. Don't make him feel bad. I scooped her up.

Once we made it upstairs, her tiny nails digging into my shoulders, she saw Santa sitting at the kitchen table with his big red bag. The bag was important. We play Santa at home, and always have a bag of toys. Norah pretends to be asleep in her bed, and I haul the cat's little cave/bed thing in her room (that's Santa's bag) and deliver the toys she stuffed inside under her bed. Then she "wakes up" and screams with joy that Santa came.

Suddenly, the fear dissolved. She went to Santa and he lifted her up on his lap.

"I want a drum and a horse with a gate."

"Now wait a second," Santa said. "Have you been a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Do you listen to your mom and dad?"

"Yes."

Little bullshitter. 

"And what do you want?"

"A drum and a horse with a gate."

She slid off his lap and he gave her a little gift bag. She ran to me and we opened it happily. The other kids took their turns. Samantha had a look on her face that said Hell no. Neither Samantha or Norah would go near him again, even for the group photo, unfortunately.

We thanked Santa and off he went.

The next morning, I asked Norah about Santa. "Did you have fun meeting Santa?"

"I didn't get what I want," she said sadly, and looked down at her oatmeal.

Then I went into the elaborate explanation of the North Pole's toy factory and the elves and all that and that we had to wait until Christmas.

"I didn't get what I want."

Oh, I have a feeling you will, Kiddo.

It's Story Time: The Frog Prince

"Kiss me, Baby. I'll make your dreams come true."

I Dislike this Cat

So, it's been about six weeks since we got the frickin' cat. (No, autocorrect, I did not mean "friction." Stop trying to tell me what to type.) And I dislike it.

This probably isn't shocking to some people, but it's actually a little shocking to me. I love animals. I've had pets before and loved them like tiny, furry children. One cat had diabetes, and we gave him insulin shots twice a day for four years. I used to volunteer at the Humane Society. We catch and release spiders. I'm even a vegetarian (I know, I know. But I'm not a jerk about it.)

But this cat is an asshole.

1. He is obsessed with paper towels and toilet paper. Shreds an entire roll in one minute.

2. He awakes at 5 am. And he yowls and fiddles with noisy things, like mini blinds and Norah's toys. He even turned the Shopvac on at 5:30 am once.

3. He's incredibly needy. He has to be touching someone constantly. That person is always me.

4. He attacks for no reason.

5. He begs for people food.

6. He knocks shit over all the time. Anything that can fall to the floor, will eventually end up being on the floor.

7. He farts. And I swear I've heard him belch.

8. He has a death wish. He's jumped in the dryer, the microwave, and has tried to steal Ryan's Chipotle steak burrito.

9. He, like the honey badger, doesn't give a shit. You can squirt him with a water bottle, clap your hands, yell, shove him (Norah: "We don't push!"), pick him up and move him to the other side of the house. Honey badger don't care. He'll come back and keep doing the annoying/destructive thing you want him to stop doing.

10. You can't even walk a few steps without him trying to topple you. He'll bob and weave through your legs and step on your feet.

We took him to the vet, and asked about these two lumps under his skin. Ryan thought he was given two microchips. Nope. One's a BB. Most people would say, "Aw! Poor kitty!" I say, "Hmm. I can totally see shooting him."

This is coming from me, whom at one point relentlessly mocked my friend, Sara, for wanting to get rid of her two cats once her first child was born. "How could you think of such a thing?" I'd ask. Now her plan of overfeeding them in order to shorten their lifespan seems reasonable, if not genius.

So why is he still allowed here?

Stuck like glue

They're best friends.

Guest Post

An awesomely funny blogger from Yeah. Good Times featured one of my cartoons today! Check it out here:

It's Story Time: The Tortoise and the Hare

Thanks, Jillsmo!