MyThreeDaughters

For some time, it seems that Elizabeth has been adding new teeth, without subtracting existing teeth. So the new one comes in, and the old one just kind of goes over and stands against the wall and watches.
This has led to an unfortunate nickname, from the eldest, who is skilled in snark: “Sharky.”
“Snarky” called her “Sharky.” (See what I did there, I think the kids say.)
Elizabeth hasn’t seemed to mind, and has just rolled with the punches, but there had to be some level of not-feeling-too-good to the whole thing. Certain nicknames are never fun, but best to let it roll off.
So it came to pass that, upon settling into middle school and seeing some of the other kids beginning to show up with soon-to-be-perfect metal-shopped teeth, Elizabeth has been coming around to possibly trimming back the second row of teeth.
The dentist apparently confirmed it would be a good idea if three particular ones found their way out.
In typical fashion for Elizabeth, not much else was said.
Wife bought her some taffy that normally a dentist would prohibit, and those stayed where they were left, on the counter.
Then a few minutes ago, around 10 p.m., Shar….Elizabeth came downstairs with a bunch of toilet paper balled up sticking out of her mouth and another red splotched piece of toiler paper rolled up in her hand.
Did your tooth come out?
“Yeah, I kind of yanked it out. It’s purple. I think it was dead.”
We went back and showed Wife.
Then we decided to have a lot of fun.
We went down to the basement to show Fontaine.
“Get away from me! What’s in your hand? Is it a stink bug?! Is it?!”
Then I opened my hand, and showed her the bloody tooth.
And years of verbal torture of “Sharky” were quickly avenged.

It’s great having three kids, and whenever possible, Wife and I try to pull them all together and do things as a screeching, protesting, questioning Forcedly Functional Fivesome.

Which makes the one-on-one kid times somewhat rare and very entertaining.
So it was, on Saturday morning, that even though we had to get up at 6:15 a.m. on a Saturday, and drive about an hour away, I was actually looking forward to some solo time with Rosebud, who will turn 8 next month.

I was not disappointed. I was so not disappointed that as soon as she joined her teammates, I opened up the note function on my phone and tried to capture the unfiltered wisdom I was just imparted. If you could keep this curiosity sharp – while learning all that we learn in college and in life – you’d have a pretty unbeatable corporate leader.

On the way there, Rosebud immediately wondered if we would get more red lights or green lights, so we counted.

“Do you know how to play SKY TIC TAC TOE?”

Of course I didn’t, so she explained that it is done with contrails, and that you can either dot your Xs or Os above the contrail lines or you can verbally do the Xs an Os, and that really the main problem is that there are rarely enough vertical lines that cross the horizontal.

“Hey, when you fly to Florida tomorrow, you could ask your pilot to make some lines?”

It was agreed that I would.

We then discussed a few other items:

● How “Miss Blodgett” her second grade teacher is a lot like a student, in that her husband packs her a lunch and a snack every day and she wears a backpack to school to carry it in.

● Whether I could hear the sound that Rosebud was presently making with her cheeks and whether it was loud in the front of the car.

● That the Big Otter River must have otters in it and that they must be large, or that the Big Otter River must be shaped like an otter – and if so, which part of the otter we had just driven over.

● That “Miss Blodgett” had already missed five days or school, three one week and then two when she went to someone’s wedding, and how if she misses about five more, she’ll probably get a nasty letter from the school district.

● That Rosebud likes sheep, but they have no brain because they always just follow each other, which is why they could easily get eaten by an Anaconda.

● (Upon passing Thomas Jefferson’s Country House, Poplar Forest): Whether Thomas Jefferson really needed two houses, but anyway, that the location of this one – surrounded by a mulch company, a fake Jefferson neighborhood and a four-lane highway – didn’t look much like a location he’d enjoy.

● If I had ever put a Band-Aid on my finger so tight that it turned purple.

● Whether I was aware that the term “gay” had two meanings, one for people who are happy all the time and the other to denote the kind of person once featured in “Poppy’s hitchhiking story.”

● If I had ever noticed that bald men’s heads are really shiny and how they get that shiny.

● And that the indentation in the back of the car head rest would be an excellent place for a fairy to live – not all the time, but when the fairy went on a vacation for a couple of weeks.

I had never noticed the indentation, then again, I figured fairies were permanently on vacation.

For the record: 16 green, 7 red, 1 yellow.

I wonder who ever decided green was for go and red was for stop and yellow meant slow down and which part of the otter we crossed and what fairies really do on vacation?

This evening, we have stepped in the midst of some sort of ritualistic baking experience that the indigenous people seem to be undertaking. Those of us hiding in the bushes are not sure what we are witnessing, but it appears that the natives have not previously performed this ritual, as it does vary from the standard village baking efforts that we have previously witnessed.

And they seem to be squabbling with each other at every turn.

We joined them in midstream for this Documentary, for which our working title is: “Out of the Churro Pan, Into the Fryer.”

The Mom: Turn that burner off, Ava.

“I DON”T KNOW HOW TO TURN THE BURNER OFF!”

Turn it to the right.

The daughter: “Right? That doesn’t make sense. MAKE IT STOP!”

How are the eggs looking, Ava?

“Eggy…..disgusting.”

The Mom: Pop the other egg in…

“I can’t stir it.”

Mom: You have to OWN it.

Mom steps in and stirs batter like it is 1956 and she is spanking a bad child.

“Disgusting….who would eat this?”

Mom: Well, we’re going to. YOU chose it!

Mom: Hey, this looks good now, want to see it?

“Uh-uh.”

Mom: OK, we’re mostly done, do you want to go write down your experience?

Daughter: “No, not really, I got it.”

Mom: So, what is your topping going to look like?

Daughter: “My WHAT?”

Mom: And this is the thing we’re going to put it in.

Daughter: Oh, fancy….isn’t that kind of small?

Daughter: I need counseling, that was terrifying, and I am not even halfway done.

(AFTER a break for dinner, they seem rested and refreshed.)

Mom: “OK, should we heat the oil?”

Daughter throws her head back against the chair and sighs.

(Well, apparently the dinner break wasn’t long enough to achieve “refreshed”)

What?

“I HATE baking.”

They move to the baking area.

Mom: Should we put that in here?

Daughter: “In where?”

Mom: In here (holding bowl and pointing at it)

Daughter: “In WHERE?”

Mom: In. This. Bowl.

Mom, sticking with it, never giving up, persisting and persevering and remaining steadfast all at once.

Should you take some pictures, for the project?

Daughter: “Uh, I was going to do that with the final one.”

Mom: OK, let’s start cleaning up while we wait.

“Um, I’m going to take some pictures.”

Mom: So you want to pop that one out?

Do you want to flip it?

Daughter: “How do you know?”

M: You’ll know….(writer’s embellishment)…It’s the same, as one day, when that perfect young man walks across the lunch room, birds will sing, violins will play, everything will look like HD plus 3D…you’ll just KNOW.

M: You need to get this one in the oil.

Daughter: “Do I put it in here? then shake it?”

(Shake, shake, shake/shake, shake shake your churro…)

“It broke in half, but why does it matter?”

M: Let’s make sure this is cooked on the inside?

Daughter: “Is it cooked? Or is it not? It’s not. Is it?”

(Tonight on The Food Channel, “The Neurotic Sous Chef.”)

M: It’s not at its best right now, not as good as it will be.

M: Oil goes down in temperature, just so you know.

Daughter: “Does it?”

M: Yes, if someone –( like my loser husband) — had gotten me an oil thermometer for Christmas like I had asked….

(Kitchen smelling like a fish fry)

Daughter: “Are we taking it out?”

“Can I flip it?”

Mom: I wouldn’t leave that one in too long, it’s getting a little too brown.

Daughter: “OK, I am going to take it out, it’s making me mad.”

(Anger: :Life’s Thermometer)

M: Ok, that one went in at 7:24, I would go ahead and put THESE in.

Daughter: “Let me just grab a pair of these, because they look really cool bubbling.”

Mom: This kind of looks like a pile of dog poop, the ones that are done.

(Bella, our dog, enters kitchen. Did someone say, “Dog poop? Count THIS DOG IN!”)

Daughter: “Can I take a picture?”

Mom: What’s wrong?

Daughter: “This is brown on the outside, not cooked, it is very frustrating.”

(Kitchen smelling like Auntie M’s Deep Fried Oreo Stand at the county fair)

Daughter: “How do I do this?”

Mother: I think if you just put it in and shake it around….

“Oh, that one is perfect.”

Mother: I think we had the oil TOO hot. (again, thermometer, Christmas, didn’t get, husband, idiot.)

Mother: Ava, cool, you have taken over, completely!

This would have all been so much easier, had we purchased the Mr. Churro machine.

OK, school system, you nailed it on the first day (Monday) when you canceled school and then it started snowing at 8 a.m., three hours earlier than predicted.
Ten inches piled up overnight, so Tuesday was not in doubt.
Takes a while to clear the streets here in the South, so Wednesday was a sure thing.
But then Wednesday afternoon, the “Instant Alert” came in via text for Thursday, that there would be no school due to “continued wintry conditions,” that gave pause.
After all, what sort of conditions were we expecting in February, if not “wintry?” Or winteresque. Or winter-like or winter-ish.
And then, Friday, sure it was 0 degrees when we woke up, but you know….coats/gloves/scarves/hats.
I mean, look at that road in that picture. A half cleared road ought to buy half a day at the school, no?

So….went to put Rosebud to bed last night, walked into her bedroom and this is what I saw.

Heh, heh, she said, kind of trying to fake sheepish and not really being that sheepish at all.

“I put my dolls on my bed today, because I wanted to count them.”

Yeah, that’s right, there’s a bed under that pig pile of dolls. And there were others that — English major question: are dolls a “which” or a “that” or a “who”? — were in a basket in the corner and probably even additional others that were in her closet, which is a door that I will not walk through.

This from a child who had the audacity to suggest earlier in the day while walking through a store that there were at least three dolls in just one aisle that she was going to add to her list for Santa. Well, muffin, that picture over there is presently being uploaded to the Jolly Ol’ Elf at 1 North Pole Plaza as we speak.

In that pile we have an American Girl (I don’t know which one), and a stuffed monkey and a couple of horses and nightly sleeping companion, “Bunny.” We have ballerinas and princesses and a lady bug and a lamb and little hard-headed plastic “J.J.,” named for a real neighbor back in Norfolk.

To the right of this pile, out of the picture, we have a four-foot tall Barbie house that came with 32 pages of assembly instructions and took me four hours and two IPAs to put together last Christmas Eve. Now, I see why the Barbies demanded their own, separate residences — tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac from these huddled masses.

Clearly, what we have here is the makings of a six-year-old hoarder. As in most of those situations you read about in the newspaper with some old woman having 78 cats, surely this began as a benevolent effort before it went horribly awry. Now, it has dragged on for so long that it is no longer in the best interest of the dolls.

For evidence of this, look no further than the foreground of the photo: Clearly, Elmo is being crushed under the weight of the pile like an earthquake victim. See, his mouth is agape and crying for help — and his eyes are all bugged out.

Rosebud was home from Kindergarten this afternoon, following a visit to the school nurse’s office and what appeared to be a successful but largely overly hyped complaint about a case of the sniffles.

Not to admit to being parents who cave, but after a short but tedious chunk of time at home in which the overly hyped complaints continued, we found ourselves looking for the iPad so that Daddy could work (I thought about immediately reporting to the Yahoo offices, whose CEO has just banned telecommuting, just to get away from the complaining, but then came face to face with the stark disappointment that I don’t work for Yahoo).

At some point, amid the frustration of not being able to find the iPad — to discover later that Elizabeth had “forgotten” that she had had it — I apparently uttered something like, “…Because I have freaking work to do!”

Rosebud looked up and said: “Why do you always say ‘freaking’ when you’re mad?”

Well, I thought, because I can’t use the words that I really want to use, but what I said was, “Because it makes me feel less mad.”

She looked at me like that was really stupid.

“I usually just let all the mads out,” she said.

Well, how do you do that?

“By telling what I feel like and yelling it,” she said, “because that helps my temper go down….down…down….down.”

Easy as pie. No need for lifelong sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy at $125 an hour (So, tell me, how did that make you feel? So, tell me, how did feeling like that make you feel? Is that working for you, or do you think you should take another approach?)

Nope. Just tell what you feel like and yell it.

Done.

Let the freaking mads out.